STORIES   AND    POEMS 
AND   OTHER   UNCOLLECTED   WRITINGS 

BY 

BRET   HARTE 


With  many  blushes,  pouts,  and  prettinesses, 
till  the  poor  fellow  was  half  crazy. 


HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 


STORIES  AND  POEMS 

AND   OTHER    UNCOLLECTED 
WRITINGS 

BY 

BRET  HARTE 

COMPILED  BY 

CHARLES  MEEKER  KOZLAY 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  ACCOUNT  OF  MARTENS 

EARLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  THE 

CALIFORNIA  PRESS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

<iCt>?  ftfcerfibe  prcstf  Cambridge 

1914 


flfundred  anti 

Coyirs  printed. 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
CHARLES  MEEKER  KOZLAY 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


BRET  HARTE 

The  magic  of  his  wizard  pen 

Still  holds  the  world  in  thrall ; 
From  lordly  laurels  won  of  men 

No  leaf  may  fade  or  fall. 

In  ways  he  trod,  and  treads  no  more. 

His  footprints  linger  still, 
Alike  on  England's  mother-shore, 

The  New  World's  sunset  hill. 

But  ah!  the  scenes  the  Boy  first  saw, 

The  sea  Balboa  named, 
The  bay  which  stout  old  Portold 

For  sweet  St.  Francis  claimed, 

The  great  Sierras  piercing  blue 

Of  sky  with  snowy  crest, 
He  knew  and  loved  them  best ;  they  knew, 

They  know,  and  love  him  best. 

They  speak  of  him,  the  forest  trees, 

Redwood,  madrono,  pine,  — 
The  Mission  Bells,  —  all  these,  and  these 

His  memory's  sacred  shrine. 

INA  COOLBRITH. 


Bussian  Hill,  San  Francisco, 
May,  1913. 


293281 


PEEFATOEY  NOTE 

GRATEFUL  acknowledgment  is  here  made  of  the  cour 
tesies  extended  me  in  the  compilation  of  this  volume.  To 
Miss  Ina  D.  Coolbrith,  whom  Bret  Harte  termed  "the 
sweetest  note  in  California  literature,"  I  am  indebted  for 
the  Dedication  Poem,  "Bret  Harte."  This  is  singularly 
appropriate,  since  Miss  Coolbrith  is  one  of  the  old  guard  of 
letters  of  the  Pacific  Coast,  one  of  the  coterie  of  writers 
which  included  Bret  Harte,  Mark  Twain,  Joaquin  Miller, 
and  Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  all  of  whom  created  literature 
in  those  early  days  which  will  find  an  abiding  place  in  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  men  for  all  time.  To  Eobert  E.  Cowan, 
of  San  Francisco,  I  owe  the  good  fortune  of  having  acquired 
the  rare  old  files  of  the  Golden  Era  and  some  other  Cali- 
fornian  newspapers.  He  has  from  time  to  time  given  me 
valuable  and  helpful  information  relative  to  Bret  Harte's 
early  work  on  the  Pacific  Coast.  I  am  grateful  for  the 
courtesies  shown  me  by  Mr.  J.  L.  Gillis,  of  the  State  Li 
brary  of  California,  at  Sacramento ;  Mr.  Frederick  J.  Taggart, 
Curator  of  the  Academy  of  Pacific  Coast  History,  Berkeley, 
California ;  the  authorities  of  the  Library  of  Congress,  Wash 
ington,  D.C.,  including  the  Copyright  Office,  and  Mr.  Frank 
P.  Hill,  of  the  Brooklyn  Public  Library.  For  permission 
to  republish  some  of  the  copyrighted  material  found  in  this 
volume,  sincere  thanks  and  acknowledgment  are  due  to  the 
following:  Mr.  William  Heinemann  and  Mrs.  T.  Edgar 
Pemberton,  of  England ;  Houghton  Mifflin  Company ;  Cen 
tury  Company;  Harper  &  Bros.;  Charles  Scribner's  Sons; 
the  Sun,  New  York ;  the  Critic  (now  Putnam's  Magazine) ; 
the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine  ;  the  American  Magazine  ;  the 
Independent,  New  York ;  the  Overland  Monthly  and  the 
Californian  (later),  San  Francisco,  California. 

C.  M.  K 


CONTENTS 


BRET  HARTE  :  DEDICATION  BY  INA  COOLBRITH  .     v 

INTRODUCTION xvii 

EARLY  PROSE 
STORIES  (1860-1865) 

MY  METAMORPHOSIS 3 

BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE 12 

STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 23 

A  CHILD'S  GHOST  STORY 33 

FACTS  CONCERNING  A   MEERSCHAUM 37 

MY  OTHERSELF.    A  GERMAN-SILVER  NOVEL       ...        44 

"His  WIFE'S  SISTER" 58 

A  CASE  OF  BLASTED  AFFECTIONS 68 

"  RAN  AWAY  " 72 

MADAME  BRIMBORION      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        80 

THE  LOST  HEIRESS:  A  TALE  OF  THE  OAKLAND  BAR      .        .83—7 

THE  COUNTESS 88 

THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND.  A  STORY  OF  TO-DAY       ...     94 
STORIES  FOR  LITTLE  GIRLS 103 

MISCELLANEOUS  (1860-1870) 

SHIPS Ill 

WANTED  — A  PRINTER 118 

WASHINGTON 120 

THE  ANGELUS 123 

ARTEMUS  WARD .  126 

FIXING  up  AN  OLD  HOUSE 129 

ON  A  PRETTY  GIRL  AT  THE  OPERA 134 

OUR  LAST  OFFERING  —  (On  the  Assassination  of   Abraham 

Lincoln) 140 

EARLY  CALIFORNIAN  SUPERSTITIONS H4 

POPULAR  BIOGRAPHIES  —  SYLVESTER  JAYHAWK  .  150 


X  CONTENTS 

STAGE-COACH  CONVERSATIONS 155 

THE  PIONEERS  OF  "FORTY-NINE" 158 

LESSONS  FROM  THE  EARTHQUAKE 162 

CHARLES  DICKENS 165 

LATER  PROSE 
STORIES 

AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 171 

THE  FIRST  MAN 184 

RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS 188 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 197 

MISCELLANEOUS 

WASHINGTON  IN  NEW  JERSEY 215 

WHAT  BRET  HARTE  SAW 221 

AMERICAN  HUMOR 225 

THE  IMPROVED  JEsop  FOR  INTELLIGENT  MODERN  CHILDREN  232 
CONFUCIUS  AND  THE  CHINESE  CLASSICS        ....       235 

THE  GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE 237 

LONGFELLOW 249 

A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.  LOWELL 256 

MY  FAVORITE  NOVELIST  AND  HIS  BEST  BOOK     .       .        .      266 

POEMS 
EARLY  POEMS  (1857-1865) 

THE  VALENTINE 279 

LINES   WRITTEN  IN  A  PRAYER-BOOK 280 

LOVE  AND  PHYSIC 281 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 283 

THE  STUDENT'S  DREAM 286 

THE  HOMESTEAD  BARN 288 

TRYSTING '      .        .  290 

"THE  FOG  BELL"    .  291 


"JESSIE" 
"DOLORES 
ELISE 


293 
294 


CONTENTS  xi 

THE  BAILIE  o'  PERTH 296 

QUESTION 297 

.    LETHE 299 

MIDAS'  WOOING .      300 

THE  WRECKER 301 

BY  THE  SAD  SEA  WAVES 303 

EFFIE •  .        .        .303 

MY  SOUL  TO  THINE 304 

SERENADE .  m  304 

THE  PRIZE-FIGHTER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS  .  .  .305 

MARY'S  ALBUM 306 

THE  REJECTED  STOCKHOLDER 307 

ON  A  NAUGHTY  LITTLE  BOY,  SLEEPING 309 

AT  THE  SEPULCHRE 310 

ARCADIA  REVISITED     . 312 

THE  SABBATH  BELLS        .....        .        .        .  .314 

IMPORTANT  MEXICAN  CORRESPONDENCE 315 

POEMS  OF  LOCAL  INTEREST  (1857-1869) 

MAD  RIVER 319 

THE  PONY  EXPRESS      .        .        .      • 320 

THE  ARGUMENT  OF  LURLINE 321 

THE  YERBA  BUENA 325 

•  TREASURER  A Y 326 

COLENSO  RHYMES  FOR  ORTHODOX  CHILDREN  .        .        .        .327 
POEM — DELIVERED  AT  THE   PATRIOTIC    EXERCISES  IN  THE 
METROPOLITAN  THEATRE,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  JULY  4,  1863     .  328 

SOUTH  PARK      .        .        .        . 331 

THE  PLAZA 332 

THE  FIRST  BROOM  RANGER 333 

ANSWERING  THE  BELL 334 

MIDSUMMER 337 

POEM  —  DELIVERED  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  LAYING  OF  THE 
CORNER-STONE  OF  THE  CALIFORNIA  DEAF,  DUMB,  AND  BUND 

ASYLUM 339 

PORTALA'S  CROSS  .  ....  340 


xii  CONTENTS 

CIVIL  WAR  POEMS  (1862-1865J 

A  VOLUNTEER  STOCKING 345 

THE  CONSERVATIVE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 346 

BANKS  AND  THE  SLAVE  GIRL     .        .  ....  348 

THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN 349 

SEMMES 350 

A  CAVALRY  SONG 352 

THE  WRATH  OF  MCDAWDLE 353 

THE  COPPERHEAD  CONVENTION 355 

SCHALK 356 

THE  YREKA  SERPENT 357 

A  FABLE  FOR  THE  TIMES 360 

THOMAS  CARLYLE  AND  PETER  OF  THE  NORTH     .        .        .361 
CALIFORNIA  TO  THE  SANITARY  COMMISSION     ....  362 

SONG  OF  THE  "CAMANCHE" 363 

A  LAY  OF  THE  LAUNCH 364 

THE  FLAG-STAFF  ON  SHACKLEFORD  ISLAND  ....      367 
OF  ONE  WHO  FELL  IN  BATTLE    .......  369 

THE  HERO  OF  SUGAR  PINE 369 

ST.  VALENTINE  IN  CAMP 370 

SCHEMMELFENNIG 372 

THE  VENDUE  OF  JEFFERSON  DAVIS 373 

IN  MEMORIAM  —  JEFFERSON  DAVIS 377 

THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  BALLAD- WRITER 378 

A  THANKSGIVING  RETROSPECT 879 

LATER  POEMS  (1871-1902) 

CHICAGO 383 

BILL  MASON'S  BRIDE .        .      383 

DEACON  JONES'S  EXPERIENCE 385 

THE  MAY  QUEEN 387 

OF  WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT 388 

THK  WANDERINGS  OF  ULYSSES 390 

THAT  EBREW  JEW 392 

THE  LEGEND  OF  GLEN  HEAD 395 

"KITTY  HAWK" 397 

Miss  EDITH  HELPS  THINGS  ALONG J99 


CONTENTS  xm 

THE  DEAD  POLITICIAN 401 

OLD  TIME  AND  NEW 403 

UNDER  THE  GUNS 404 

COMPENSATION 405 

OUR  LAUREATE .406 

SCOTCH  LINES  TO  A.  S.  B 406 

THE  ENOCH  OF  CALAVERAS 407 

"FREE  SILVER  AT  ANGEL'S" 409 

"HASTA  MANANA" 414 

LINES  TO  A  PORTRAIT,  BY  A  SUPERIOR  PERSON  .        .        .      415 

THE  BIRDS  OF  CIRENCESTER 417 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES  AND  THE  KLONDIKER        ....      420 

UNCLE  JUBA 422 

THE  QUEEN'S  DEATH 424 

THE  SWORD  OF  DON  JOSE"   .  .  425 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  431 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

WITH  MANY  BLUSHES,  POUTS,  AND  PRETTINESSES,  TILL  THE  POOR 
FELLOW  WAS  HALF  CRAZY  (see  page  32)     ,        .        .    Frontispiece 

VIGNETTE  on  ENGRAVED  TITLE-PAGE  (see  page  286) 

THE  MANUFACTORY  is  AT  WORK 98 

WON'T  YOU  PLEASE  GET  OUT  ? 192 

LINGERING,  LOOKING,  WOULDST  RECALL 

AUGHT  OF  THIS  GIDDY  SCENE  BELOW  ?  .  .294 


From  drawings  by  J.  Henry. 


INTRODUCTION 

THIS  volume  is  the  outgrowth  of  many  years'  research  on 
a  Bibliography  of  Bret  Harte.  It  was  while  searching  my 
fortunately  acquired  files  of  old  Californian  newspapers  that 
the  vast  amount  of  hitherto  uncollected  work  of  Bret  Harte 
became  apparent.  The  value  of  this  material  and  the  belief 
in  its  interest  to  the  public  created  the  desire  to  publish 
Harte's  immature  and  unrevised  poems  and  prose,  as  well 
as  some  of  his  later  work  which  so  far  has  not  found  a  place 
in  his  collected  writings. 

It  has  been  thought  best  to  arrange  these  items  in  the 
order  of  their  original  appearance,  subdividing  them  into  the 
periods  to  which  they  naturally  belong.  The  *  Early  Poems 
and  Prose"  up  to  1865,  although  written  during  Harte's 
formative  period,  show  even  at  this  early  time  the  same 
genius  which  we  find  later  in  more  finished  form.  The 
"Poems  of  Local  Interest"  have  been  so  called  because 
they  deal  solely  with  Californian  events.  The  "  Civil  War 
Poems"  are  Harte's  expressions  on  the  passing  events  of 
that  great  struggle.  "Later  Poems  and  Prose"  comprise 
such  of  his  writings  after  he  left  California  as  also  have  not 
been  included  in  his  collected  works.  Wherever  the  mean 
ing  of  the  poems  and  prose  would  otherwise  be  obscure,  the 
compiler  has  given  the  place  and  circumstances  under  which 
they  were  written.  Alterations  or  corrections  in  no  case, 
however,  have  been  made  in  the  text. 

No  attempt  will  be  made  to  give  a  biography  of  Bret 
Harte,  —  that  has  already  been  ably  done  by  Mr.  Henry  C. 
Merwin,  —  but  some  account  should  be  given  here  of  Harte's 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

early  contributions  to  the  press  of  San  Francisco.  That  so 
little  has  been  written  of  this  part  of  Bret  Harte's  career 
may  have  seemed  strange  to  the  casual  reader,  but  when  he 
takes  the  following  facts  into  consideration,  the  solution  be 
comes  apparent.  Harte's  early  literary  work  was  done  prin 
cipally  while  he  was  on  the  staff  of  the  Golden  Era  and 
the  Californian.  The  difficulty  of  obtaining  the  data  re 
garding  his  connections  with  these  periodicals  is  the  reason 
for  the  obscurity  of  his  early  literary  work.  Even  before 
the  earthquake  fire  which  destroyed  the  libraries  of  San 
Francisco,  no  complete  file  of  either  of  these  periodicals 
could  be  found.  Mrs.  Cumings  in  her  Story  of  the  Files 
says,  "  The  complete  file  of  the  old  journal  [the  Golden 
Era\  is  no  longer  in  existence.  Since  the  day  spent  by  the 
writer  in  going  over  the  files,  the  columns  have  been  riddled 
and  scissored  mercilessly.  The  heart  of  the  volumes  has 
been  cut  out  piecemeal,  and  only  the  wretched  skeleton  is 
left.  A  new  paper  was  to  have  been  started  with  these  clip 
pings  from  the  past  .  .  .  but  it  came  to  naught."  Of  the 
Californian  she  says  :  "The  Californian  lived  to  be  three 
years  old  and  has  never  died.  In  tracing  the  history  of  Cali 
fornian  publications  the  memory  of  Charles  Henry  Webb's 
paper  of  the  early  sixties  maintains  a  surprising  vitality.  It 
made  a  strong  impression  at  that  time,  which  continues 
to-day.  But  not  a  word  can  be  found  in  the  printed  page  to 
tell  of  its  existence :  —  it  is  always  in  men's  memories  that 
it  has  its  abiding  place." 

The  writer  was  happily  able  to  acquire  files  of  both  these 
papers,  and  it  is  due  to  this  good  fortune  that  Harte's  early 
literary  work  is  now  republished.  From  the  pages  of  these 
old  files,  and  some  other  Californian  periodicals,  we  are 
able  to  give  a  chronological  sketch  of  his  early  writings. 
His  first  literary  effort,  Harte  says,  "  was  at  the  mature  age 
of  eleven,"  before  his  arrival  in  California.  He  says  it  was 
"  a  bit  of  satirical  verse  entitled  'Autumn  Musings/  "  but 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

so  far  the  compiler  has  been  unable  to  find  any  record  or 
copy  of  the  poem.  Apparently  this  is  lost.  It  has  been 
generally  believed  that  Harte's  first  known  poem  was  "  Do 
lores  "  which  he  sent  as  "  a  California  Poetical  Venture  " 
to  the  editor  of  the  Knickerbocker,  or  New  York  Monthly 
Magazine.  The  poem  appeared  in  that  magazine  in  Jan 
uary,  1858.  This  idea,  however,  is  erroneous,  for  we  must 
go  back  almost  a  year  in  the  files  of  the  Golden  Era,  where 
on  March  1,  1857,  appears  the  poem,  "  The  Valentine," 
which  is  perhaps  his  very  first  California  "  venture."  Dur 
ing  this  year  he  contributed  to  the  Era  eight  other  poems, 
all  of  which,  of  course,  precede  "  Dolores." 

At  this  time,  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  of  1857, 
Harte  wrote  his  first  prose,  a  series  of  letters  to  the  Golden 
Era,  entitled  "A  Trip  up  the  Coast."  These  were  long 
letters  descriptive  of  the  places  he  visited  and  would  be  of 
no  particular  interest  to  the  present-day  reader.  The  follow 
ing  extract  is,  perhaps,  the  most  interesting  portion :  — 

A  month  or  two  ago  I  resolved  to  leave  San  Francisco.  I  had 
grown  wearied  of  an  endless  repetition  of  dirty  streets,  sand  hills, 
bricks  and  mortar.  The  smiling  but  vacant  serenity  of  the  morn 
ing  skies,  the  regular  annoyance  of  afternoon  gales  and  evening 
fogs,  had  become  contemptuously  familiar.  I  sought  a  change 
of  clime.  .  .  .  Uniontown,  through  its  adolescence  —  a  mere 
yearling  grazing  on  the  country  pastures  —  possesses  a  certain 
stamina  and  stability,  in  this  country,  alas !  too  unfrequently  met. 
California  towns  and  villages  have  an  unsubstantial,  temporary 
look  in  keeping  with  their  ephemeral  character.  But  here  is  a 
reminiscence,  faint  though  it  may  be,  in  the  white  cottages  and 
green  lawns,  the  neat,  substantial,  and  well -ordered  farms,  of  New 
England  propriety  and  Eastern  homes.  It  is  true,  the  Bedouin- 
like,  roving,  vagabond  disposition  of  our  people  is  growing  less 
noticeable ;  but  it  will  be  some  time  yet  before  "home"  will  have 
any  other  than  its  usual  California  significance  —  the  "States." 
...  I  started  with  a  pleasant  party  for  Eel  River.  It  was  one 
of  those  glorious,  smoky,  hazy  days  so  rare  to  these  bright,  blue 
skies,  resembling  the  Indian  summer  of  the  Northern  States,  and 
carrying  me  back  to  the  fairy  hills,  dreamy  uplands,  and  pleasant 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

valleys  of  the  Catskills.  It  was  a  Sabbath,  so  like  those  doubly- 
blessed  ones,  years  past,  that  in  my  fancy  I  could  hear  the  church- 
bells  ringing  lazily  out  of  the  soft  valleys,  and  swelling  into  a 
subdued  and  dreamy  music,  all  in  harmony  with  the  drowsy 
landscape  :  one  of  those  days,  when,  a  child,  I  no  longer  doubted 
or  wondered  that  on  such  had  Rip  Van  Winkle  closed  his  eyes 
and  never  cared  to  wake.  But  with  this  rare  similitude  of  clime 
the  scenery  was  widely  different.  For  hours  we  rode  through 
long  aisles  of  tall  redwoods,  some  of  their  pillared  shafts  measur 
ing  twenty-five  feet  in  diameter  at  their  base  and  towering  away 
two  and  three  hundred  feet  above  us. 

Brushing  a  way  the  tangled  salmon  bushes,  with  their  exquisitely- 
tinted  berries  yet  dripping  with  dew,  leaping  the  fallen  trees  when 
practicable,  or  making  a  longer  detour  in  compliment  to  some 
forest  monarch  which  in  dethroned  majesty  still  blocked  the  way, 
and  catching  glimpses  of  the  river  through  the  waving  elders, 
with  the  stillness  broken  only  by  the  jingling  spurs  and  trap 
pings,  we  at  length  emerged  upon  the  open  beach.  .  .  .  The  long- 
sustained,  heavy  and  unbroken  swell,  traversing  an  entire  hemi 
sphere,  rose  and  fell  at  our  very  feet.  In  the  track  of  the  setting 
sun,  the  distant  shores  of  Japan  and  the  far  Cathay  were  washed 
by  the  self-same  waters.  Far  to  the  south  the  narrow  line  of  sea 
beach  stretched  away,  diminishing  to  a  silver  thread  in  the  dis 
tance,  till  it  melted  into  the  hazy  upland.  Humboldt  Lighthouse 
stood,  like  the  forgotten  sentinel  of  Pompeii,  in  the  midst  of  soli 
tude  and  desolation.  Low  sand  hills  rising  behind  us  shut  out 
the  view,  and  contributed  to  the  feeling  of  utter  isolation  which 
gradually  took  possession  of  our  little  party.  .  .  .  We  were  pro 
ceeding  at  a  pleasant  canter,  when  suddenly  B.,  riding  a  little 
out  from  the  rest,  dashed  into  the  surf  in  a  frantic  manner,  exe 
cuted  some  surprising  demisaults,  hung  for  a  moment  beneath 
the  saddle,  and  then  returned  to  us,  dripping  like  a  merman,  and 
holding  high  above  him  some  black  object  —  the  waif  he  had 
recovered  from  the  dashing  spray.  What  do  you  think  it  was? 
What  would  impel  a  sane  individual,  never  suspected  of  reckless 
ness,  to  such  an  act  ?  Was  it  a  casket  ?  Or  a  plethoric  pocket- 
book —  the  rejected  god  cast  back  at  its  worshiper's  feet!  None 
of  these.  A  child's  shoe  !  a  tiny  worn-out  and  patched  morocco 
gaiter —  that  was  all  !  It  passed  from  man  to  man  without  com 
ment.  Of  that  group  two  were  fathers,  and  one  had  passed  a 
long  exile  from  a  happy  hearth  thousands  of  miles  away.  As  Tie 
took  up  that  little  bit  of  leather  and  prunella,  do  you  think  he 
saw  only  the  long,  white  beach,  and  the  vacant  expanse  of  sky 
and  water  ?  Or  did  his  fancy  conjure  up  a  misty,  tearful  vision  of 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

sunny  curls,  love-lit  eyes,  graceful  figure,  and  fairy  feet  rising  out 
of  that  little  shoe,  as  the  genii  rose  from  Solomon's  sealed  casket, 
in  the  Arabian  story?  Was  it  the  spray,  think  you,  that  moistened 
his  eyes,  as  he  gazed,  and  coursed  down  the  toil-worn  furrows  of 
his  cheek  ?  There  was  no  time  to  inquire.  The  episode  of  a 
moment's  duration  was  over,  the  shadow  had  passed,  and  in  the 
clear  sunlight  and  fresh  sea  breeze  we  journeyed  on. 

These  letters  to  the  Golden  Era,  excepting  a  poem  "  The 
Bailie  o'  Perth,"  are  the  only  work  of  Harte's  which  we 
have  for  the  time  he  was  absent  from  San  Francisco.  He 
had 'gone  to  a  place  called  Uniontown,  and  it  is  said  that  he 
worked  while  there  on  the  Humboldt  Times.  It  is  known 
that  he  acted  as  assistant  to  the  editor  of  the  Northern 
Californian,  a  weekly  paper  published  for  a  short  time  at 
Eureka,  the  county  seat  of  Humboldt  County.  If  files  of 
either  of  these  papers  for  that  period  were  in  existence  some 
good  work  might  have  been  preserved.  Perhaps,  however, 
he  did  very  little  literary  work,  for  at  this  time  in  the  office 
of  the  Northern  Californian,  he  learned  the  printer's  trade 
and  also  spent  considerable  time  at  other  occupations.  When 
he  returned  to  San  Francisco  he  worked  for  a  time  as  a  com 
positor  on  the  Golden  Era,  and  in  an  article  contributed  to 
that  paper  entitled  "  Wanted  a  Printer  "  he  sets  down  his 
impressions  as  a  typesetter. 

"  My  Metamorphosis,"  Harte's  first  story,  was  contributed 
to  the  Golden  Era  in  April,  1860,  shortly  after  his  return 
to  San  Francisco.  From  this  time  until  the  establishment 
of  the  Californian  in  1864  his  literary  work  on  the  Era 
was  almost  continuous.  Poems,  stories,  and  prose  followed 
each  other  in  rapid  succession.  One  of  these  stories,  "  The 
Work  on  Ked  Mountain,"  appeared  in  December,  1860. 
This  is  Harte's  well-known  story  of  "  M'liss,"  which  was 
included  in  his  early  collected  works.  The  fact  that  this 
story  was  rewritten  and  published  again  in  the  same  peri 
odical,  calls  for  some  explanation  which  we  might  make  at 
this  time.  Joseph  Lawrence,  the  editor  of  the  Era,  was 


XXll  INTRODUCTION 

perhaps  the  first  of  the  many  admirers  of  Melissa  Smith,  and 
he  insisted  that  this  rough  little  diamond  deserved  a  better  set 
ting.  He  wanted  the  story  lengthened  and  strengthened,  and 
the  title  to  be  "  M'liss."  So  with  a  long  notice  and  a  loud 
trumpeting,  and  a  special  woodcut  heading,  " '  M'liss,'  an 
Idyl  of  Ked  Mountain,  by  '  Bret,'  one  of  the  best  writers  of 
romance  in  America,"  began  as  a  serial  story  in  the  issue  of 
September  20,  1863.  It  was  to  be  "  completed  in  twenty- 
four  numbers."  In  point  of  fact  it  was  completed  in  ten 
numbers,  but  they  were  at  times  numbers  of  weeks  apart. 
He  had  intended  to  rewrite  the  original  story  as  oppor 
tunity  offered  and  furnish  the  copy  from  week  to  week. 
Chapter  eight  he  devotes  to  a  humorous  explanation  of  why 
"  he  hesitates  to  go  on."  The  rewritten  version  is  found 
in  the  present-day  collected  writings. 

To  the  Golden  Era  for  the  years  1860  and  1861  Harte 
contributed  weekly  a  long  list  of  papers  on  passing  events 
under  the  pen-name  of  "The  Bohemian."  His  work  on 
that  paper  was  so  voluminous  that  he  resorted  to  a  num 
ber  of  noms-de-plume :  "  Jefferson  Brick,"  "  J.  Keyser," 
"Alexis  Puffer,"  and  other  names  which  he  had  introduced 
in  his  Bohemian  papers.  During  1862  and  1863  these 
papers  were  continued  in  slightly  different  form.  The 
majority,  however,  are  of  such  ephemeral  interest,  being 
accounts  of  local  events  at  that  time,  that  taken  out  of  their 
place  they  have  little  meaning  and  we  do  not  include  them 
in  this  volume.  Some  of  the  later  Bohemian  papers  which 
were  on  more  general  topics  he  included  in  his  collected 
works.  The  following  extract  may  be  of  interest  here  as 
showing  the  style  of  these  early  papers :  — 

That  rare  combination  of  quick  perceptive  faculties  with  great 

reflective  power,  sometimes  exhibited  in  a  single  individual, 

always  produces  in  my  mind  feelings  of  awe  and  astonishment. 

,   I  remember  that  as  an  infant  I  exhibited  a  disposition  to  "  take 

notice"  early,  and  have  since  been  called  an  "observing  young 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

man/'  but  I  don't  see  that  this  faculty,  unsupported,  has  been  of 
any  service  to  me.  So  I  have  lately  been  cultivating  a  reflective 
and  reasoning  style  from  my  friend  Puffer.  Now  Puffer  is  the 
antithesis  of  myself,  and  thinks  about  everything  and  sees  noth 
ing.  We  get  along  very  well  together,  and  help  each  other  like 
the  two  gifted  young  men  "  Sharp  Eyes  "  and  "  Big  Head  "  in  the 
fairy  tale.  In  combination  we  are  enabled  to  follow  a  very  respect 
able  train  of  reasoning  and  deduction  from  established  fact.  Let 
me  give  you  a  single  instance.  Puffer  and  myself  were  walk 
ing  down  Montgomery  Street.  I  saw  a  dog  with  a  stumpy  tail. 
Somebody  threw  something  nice  to  the  dog  with  a  stumpy  tail 
and  the  dogjwith  a  stumpy  tail  wagged  his  tail  violently.  I  then 
remarked  to  Puffer  that  I  had  noticed  that  dogs  with  short  or 
stumpy  tails  wagged  them  much  harder  than  dogs  with  long  tails. 
This  remark  set  Puffer  to  thinking.  The  next  day  he  handed  me 
the  following,  written  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper.  "A  dog  with 
a  short  tail  will  wag  his  tail  much  more  rapidly  than  a  dog  with 
a  long  tail.  As  with  a  pendulum,  the  same  force  required  to  de 
scribe  a  certain  cycloid  if  applied  to  a  lesser  one  will  produce  a 
quicker  vibration  of  the  pendulum  (or  tail).  Dogs  being  igno 
rant  of  natural  philosophy,  apply  the  same  power  to  tails  of  un 
equal  length.  Hence  the  velocity  of  a  dog's  tail  in  wagging  may 
be  considered  in  inverse  proportion  to  the  length  of  the  tail.  The 
ethical  supposition  that  a  dog  with  a  short  tail  is  more  susceptible 
of  gratitude,  is  pleasing  but  erroneous.  We  have  here  a  beauti 
ful  illustration  of  the  reconcilability  of  sentiment  and  expression. 
That  principle  which  is  denied  the  form  of  dignity  and  grandeur, 
may  be  exhibited  in  vivacity  and  cheerfulness.  —  A. P."  I  thought 
that  wasn't  bad  for  Puffer. 


As  early  as  1862  appears  in  these  files  the  first  of  HarteV 
"Condensed  Novels"  :  "  Victor  Hugo's  New  Gospel  <Les 
Miserables ' ;  Fantine  Done  into  English  from  the  French 
of  Victor  Hugo  —  par  J.  Keyser."  This  was  soon  followed 
by  "  La  Femme  "  and  others.  All  of  those  which  he  deemed 
worthy  have  been  republished  by  him. 

By  this  time  the  Civil  War  was  the  dominant  theme 
throughout  the  land,  and  Harte's  loyalty  to  the  Union  found 
expression  in  the  large  number  of  poems  contributed  to  the 
Era  in  1862-63,  and  later  in  the  Daily  Evening  Bulle 
tin  and  the  Californian.  Mr.  James  T.  Fields,  the  poet, 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

complimented  this  loyalty  by  prefacing  the  reading  of  a 
poem  of  Harte's  some  years  after  the  war  with  the  follow 
ing  words :  — 

"If  the  poet  whose  absence  to-day  we  deplore, 

Had  struck  but  one  note  for  his  country's  disgrace, 
If  his  lyre  had  betrayed  you,  ye  heroes  of  war, 

I  could  not  and  would  not  stand  here  in  his  place. 

"But  his  soul  was  responsive  to  all  that  was  gravid, 

And  his  loyal  young  spirit  leaped  up  in  a  flame  ; 

And  he  fought  with  the  pen  for  his  dear  struggling  land, 

As  you  with  your  swords,  sons  of  glory  and  fame. 

"And  so,  for  my  friend,  I  will  take  up  his  song, 

And  give  it  a  voice,  though,  alas  !  not  its  own. 
To  him  the  quaint  verse  and  the  genius  belong  ; 
To  me  but  the  accents  of  friendship  alone." 

The  Golden  Era  \vould  doubtless  have  published  Harte's 
contributions  for  many  years  longer  had  it  not  been  for  the 
influence  of  one  Charles  Henry  Webb,  who  left  the  edito 
rial  staff  of  the  New  York  Times  and  went  to  California 
in  1863,  and  contributed  to  the  Era  under  the  pen- 
name  of  "Inigo."  Webb,  or  John  Paul,  as  he  sometimes 
termed  himself,  was  not  long  in  convincing  himself  and  a 
few  others  that  there  was  need  of  another  weekly  periodical 
in  San  Francisco,  and  so,  in  May,  1864,  when  the  Calif  or- 
nian  was  launched,  Bret  Harte  unreservedly  threw  in  his 
lot  with  the  others,  and  stood  by  the  paper,  even  after  Webb 
gave  up  his  interest  in  it  and  went  back  to  New  York. 

«  I  Was  —  and  am  —  rather  proud  of  that  paper,"  wrote 
Webb  some  eight  or  nine  years  later.  "  It  represented  con 
siderable  of  my  money  and  a  good  deal  of  my  time,  for  all 
of  which  I  had  nothing  to  show.  To  the  Calif ornian  un 
der  my  management,  many  who  have  since  obtained  wide 
spread  reputations  contributed,  and  it  was  called  consider 
able  of  a  paper,  to  be  published  so  far  away  from  Boston. 
True,  the  contributors  never  received  much  pay  for  their 
work,  and  no  flattering  inducement  of  more  was  ever  held 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

out  to  them ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  did  not  have  to 
pay  anything  for  the  privilege  of  expressing  themselves 
weekly,  and  this  was  a  blessed  immunity  which  never  fell 
to  my  lot  while  owning  the  paper." 

In  September,  1864,  when  Webb  resigned  from  the  paper 
and  Bret  Harte  succeeded  him  as  editor,  he  said,  "  In  say 
ing  good-bye,  I  do  not  intend  to  perpetuate  a  bad  sell.  My 
position  has  been  a  very  pleasant  one.  I  had  not  much 
salary,  it  is  true,  in  fact  none  at  all,  but  then  I  had  con 
stant  employment,  and  what  more  could  be  desired  ?  The 
journal  is  now  in  a  flourishing  condition,  and  I  leave  it. 
It  has  for  some  time  been  paying  its  own  expenses,  and 
they  tell  me  that  the  question  of  its  paying  mine  is  simply 
a  matter  of  time.  To  me  it  looks  like  a  matter  of  eternity. 
And  as  life  is  brief,  I  intend  to  take  the  present  opportunity 
and  go  a-fishing.  The  journal  passes  into  hands  eminently 
capable  of  conducting  it.  In  the  editor  the  readers  will 
recognize  one  whose  graceful  contributions  to  this  and  other 
journals  have  already  made  his  name  a  household  word  on 
this  coast." 

Bret  Harte  from  the  inception  of  the  Californian  had 
been  contributing  to  almost  every  issue.  Much  of  this 
work,  contrary  to  his  custom,  was  without  signature.  He 
had  always  signed  his  stories  and  poems  "Bret,"  "H.," 
"  F.  B.  H.,"  etc.,  or  with  one  of  his  numerous  noms-de-plume. 
In  an  editorial  at  that  time  he  says :  "It  was  the  inten 
tion  of  the  proprietors  to  make  the  paper  purely  impersonal, 
and  that  any  fame  or  credit  which  it  might  evoke  from 
abroad  should  accrue  to  the  interests  of  the  journal  alone. 
For  that  purpose  the  author  was  willing  to  merge  his  indi 
viduality  in  that  of  THE  CALIFORNIAN.  But  the  project 
failed  signally.  The  articles  were  copied  without  credit  or 
belief  in  their  originality."  With  the  completion  of  the 
first  volume,  the  ownership  of  the  paper  changed  hands 
and  Harte  retired  from  the  editorial  chair.  Webb  returned 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

from  his  "  fishing  trip "  and  again  became  the  editor,  a 
position  which  he  held  until  April,  1865.  Bret  Harte, 
though  not  reassuming  the  editorship,  assisted  in  the  edito 
rial  work,  and  continued  writing  for  the  paper  from  week  to 
week.  On  April  22,  1865,  the  paper  went  into  mourning 
for  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  one  of  Harte' s  contributions  to 
that  issue  appears  on  the  editorial  page,  entitled  "  Our  Last 
Offering." 

While  it  is  true  that  Bret  Harte  contributed  at  times  to 
other  Californian  papers,  notably  the  Daily  Evening  Bul 
letin,  Alta  California,  the  News  Letter,  etc.,  the  bulk  of 
his  work  was  done  on  the  Golden  Era  and  the  Californian. 
The  last-named  paper  was  really  the  nucleus  from  which 
sprang  the  Overland  Monthly,  with  Harte  as  editor  from 
its  beginning  in  July,  1868,  until  December,  1870.  Much 
has  been  written  of  this  periodical,  containing  as  it  did,  the 
contributions  that  first  brought  him  to  the  notice  of  the 
Eastern  world  and  made  him  famous. 

It  is  more  than  likely  that  a  large  number  of  the  poems 
and  prose  contained  in  this  volume  would  have  been  lost 
had  they  not  been  embodied  in  the  present  edition.  A 
popular  author  might  sometimes  wish,  at  an  advanced  period 
in  his  career,  that  some  of  his  earlier  products  had  been 
lost  sight  of.  It  is  not  known  that  this  was  the  view  held 
by  Bret  Harte,  nor  the  reason  for  their  non-appearance  in 
his  collected  works.  It  is  altogether  likely  that  he  brought 
together  and  used  such  of  his  work  as  was  at  the  time 
available.  He  always  had  enough  material  for  his  constantly 
appearing  books  and  so  did  little  searching  for  anything 
which  was  not  at  hand. 

We  offer  this  volume  to  the  enthusiasts  and  collectors 
and  to  the  casual  reader  and  lover  of  Bret  Harte,  in  the  be 
lief  that  they  will  derive  much  pleasure  from  the  perusal 
of  the  same,  and  in  the  hope  that  it  may  be  of  interest 
not  only  for  the  material  it  contains  but  for  the  manner  in 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

which  it  shows  the  gradual  development  of  the  author.  It 
is  a  curious  coincidence  that  this  volume,  primarily  a  com 
pilation  of  unpublished  work,  should  include  so  much  of  the 
author's  writings  and  show  this  development  to  such  an  as 
tonishing  degree.  Harte's  popularity  has  been  great.  This 
volume,  we  hope,  will  inspire  a  still  greater  love  and  appre 
ciation  of  his  writings. 


EARLY  PROSE 
STORIES 
1860-1865 


STORIES  AND  POEMS 

MY  METAMORPHOSIS1 

(Bret  Harte's  First  Story) 

WHEN  I  left  the  Academy  of  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Blather 
skite,  after  four  years'  board  and  educational  experience,  it 
was  with  a  profound  confidence  in  books  and  a  supreme  con 
tempt  for  the  world  —  in  which  cosmogony  I  included  all 
kinds  of  practical  institutions.  With  a  strong  poetical 
imagination,  a  memory  saturated  with  fictitious  narrative, 
and  a  sensitive  temperament  full  of  salient  angles  not  yet 
rubbed  off  by  contact  with  society,  I  easily  glided  into  the 
following  adventure. 

The  great  vagabond  principle  peculiar  to  such  tempera 
ments  led  me  to  wander.  A  love  for  the  beautiful  made  me 
an  artist.  A  small  patrimony  sufficed  my  wants ;  and  so, 
one  day,  I  found  myself  loitering,  pencil  and  sketch  book 
in  hand,  in  one  of  the  pleasantest  midland  counties  in 
England. 

Near  the  village  where  I  tarried,  a  noble  estate  spread 
over  the  country.  All  that  the  refined  taste  of  a  great 
family  —  whose  wealth  was  incalculable  —  had  gathered  in 
successive  generations,  lay  in  that  ancestral  park.  The  same 
liberal  spirit  which  had  adorned  it,  opened  its  gates  to  the 
curious  stranger ;  and  here  it  was  that  I  picked  up  many 
a  woodland  sketch,  a  study,  a  suggestive  grouping  of  light 
and  shadow,  which  you  may  see  in  those  two  pictures  num 
bered  in  the  catalogue  of  the  Academy  of  Design  respec 
tively  as  Nos.  190006  and  190007,  and  to  which  the  "Art 
1  Golden  Era,  April  29,  1860. 


4  MY  METAMORPHOSIS 

Journal "  so  favorably  alluded  as  "  the  happiest  pre-Kaphael- 
ite  effort  of  the  gifted  Van  Daub." 

One  July  afternoon,  —  the  air  had  that  quivering  inten 
sity  of  heat,  which  I  think  is  as  palpable  to  sight  as  feel 
ing,  —  after  a  quiet  stroll  in  the  park,  I  reached  the  margin 
of  a  sylvan  lake.  A  lawn,  girdled  by  oaks  and  beeches, 
sloped  toward  it  in  a  semicircle  for  some  few  hundred  feet, 
and  its  margin  was  decorated  with  statuary.  Here  was  Diana 
and  her  hounds,  Actseon,  Pan  and  pipe,  Satyrs,  Fauns,  Naiads, 
Dryads,  and  numberless  deities  of  both  elements.  The  spot 
was  rural,  weird,  and  fascinating.  I  threw  myself  luxuri 
ously  on  the  sward  beside  it. 

I  had  forgotten  to  mention  a  strong  predilection  of  mine. 
I  was  passionately  fond  of  swimming.  The  air  was  op 
pressive —  the  surface  of  the  lake  looked  cool  and  tempting ; 
there  was  nothing  to  prevent  an  indulgence  of  my  propen 
sity  but  the  fear  of  interruption.  The  knowledge  that  the 
family  were  absent  from  the  mansion,  that  few  strangers  passed 
that  way,  and  the  growing  lateness  of  the  hour  determined  me. 
I  divested  myself  of  my  garments  on  the  wooded  margin,  and 
plunged  boldly  in.  How  deliciously  the  thirsty  pores  drank 
up  the  pure  element!  I  dived.  I  rolled  over  like  a  dol 
phin.  I  swam  to  the  opposite  side,  by  the  lawn,  and  among 
the  whispering  reeds  I  floated  idly  on  my  back,  glancing  at 
the  statues,  and  thinking  of  the  quaint  legends  which  had 
shadowed  them  forth.  My  mind  enthusiastically  dwelt  upon 
the  pleasures  of  its  sensuous  life.  "Happy,"  said  I,  "were 
the  days  when  Naiads  sported  in  these  waters  !  Blest  were 
the  innocent  and  peaceful  Dryads  who  inhabited  the  boles 
of  yonder  oaks.  Beautiful  was  the  sentiment,  and  exquisite 
the  fancy  which  gave  to  each  harmonious  element  of  nature 
a  living  embodiment."  Alas,  if  I  had  only  been  content 
with  thinking  this  nonsense!  But  then  it  was  that  the  fol 
lowing  solemnly  ridiculous  idea  took  possession  of  me.  A 
few  strokes  brought  me  to  the  bank,  and  gathering  some 


MY  METAMOKPHOSIS  5 

alder  boughs,  I  twined  their  green  leaves  intermixed  with 
rushes  around  my  loins.  A  few  more  I  twisted  into  a 
wreath  around  my  foolish  cranium.  Thus  crowned,  I  sur 
veyed  myself  with  unmixed  satisfaction  in  the  watery  mir 
ror.  I  might  have  been  Actseon  in  person,  or  a  graceful 
Dryad  of  the  masculine  gender.  The  illusion  in  either  case 
was  perfect. 

I  was  still  looking  when  I  was  startled  at  the  sound  of 
voices.  Conceive  of  my  dismay  on  turning  around  and  per 
ceiving  a  crowd  of  well-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen,  scat 
tered  in  groups  about  the  lawn.  It  at  once  rushed  upon  my 
mind  that  the  family  had  returned  with  company.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  My  clothes  were  on  the  opposite  shore. 
An  open  space  intervening  between  myself  and  the  woods 
rendered  escape  in  that  direction  impossible  without  detec 
tion.  As  yet  I  was  unperceived.  But  a  party  of  both 
sexes  were  approaching  by  a  path  which  led  directly  toward 
me.  I  looked  around  in  anguish.  A  few  feet  from  me 
arose  a  pyramidal  pedestal  of  some  statue;  but  Time,  the 
iconoclast,  had  long  ago  tumbled  the  battered  monolith  into 
the  lake.  A  brilliant  idea  struck  me.  I  had  got  myself 
into  this  horrible  scrape  by  the  foolish  impersonation  of  my 
fancy ;  I  resolved  to  free  myself  by  its  aid.  The  pedestal 
was  about  eight  feet  in  height.  To  scale  this  and  place 
myself  in  attitude  was  but  a  moment's  work.  With  a  beat 
ing  heart,  but  perfectly  rigid  limbs,  I  awaited  their  coming. 
I  hoped,  I  prayed  it  might  not  be  long. 

Imagine  to  yourself  a  clean-limbed  young  fellow  of  one- 
and-twenty,  sans  the  ordinary  habiliments,  with  no  other 
covering  than  nature's  own  and  a  sort  of  fig-leaf  apron  made 
of  rushes  and  encircling  his  loins  and  thighs,  his  brows  bound 
with  an  alder  wreath,  and  the  evening  shadows  cast  over 
his  pale  face  and  chilled  but  upright  figure,  and  you  have 
me  as  I  stood  at  that  eventful  moment. 

To  give  effect  to  my  acting,  I  closed  my  eyes.  Footsteps 


6  MY  METAMOEPHOSIS 

approached.  I  heard  the  rustle  of  silks  and  the  sound  of 
voices. 

"Beautiful!"  (full  feminine  chorus).  "How  perfectly 
natural!"  (sotto  voce). 

A  cracked  base  voice  —  probably pater-familias  —  "Yes, 
decidedly.  The  position  is  easy  and  graceful.  The  con 
tour  is  excellent  —  not  modern,  I  should  think,  but  in  good 
preservation." 

A  drawling  falsetto :  "  Ya-as,  pretty  good  —  vewy  fair 
copy ;  'ave  seen  lots  of  such  fellows  at  Wome.  They  're 
vewy  common  there ;  don't  think  it's  quite  cowwect;  vewy 
bad  legs,  vewy  !  " 

This  was  too  much.  I  had  been  a  great  pedestrian 
and  flattered  myself  that  I  had  pretty  well-developed  calves. 
I  could  bear  female  criticism ;  but,  to  put  up  with  the 
indelicate  comments  of  a  creature  whom  I  felt  to  be  a 
spindle-shanked  dandy,  infuriated  me.  I  choked  my  rising 
wrath  with  clenched  teeth,  but  moved  not  an  external 
muscle. 

"Well,"  said  a  sweet  voice  that  thrilled  me,  "I  have  no 
disposition  to  stay  here  all  night,  with  heaven  knows  how 
many  woodland  sprites  about  us.  The  place  looks  weird 
and  gloomy.  I  almost  fancy  that  yonder  gentleman  has  a 
disposition  to  step  down  from  his  pedestal  and  carry  some 
of  us  off  to  his  home  in  some  hollow  tree ! " 

I  did  dare  to  open  my  eyes,  though  each  syllable  of  that 
musical,  gurgling  voice  rang  in  my  ears,  and  sent  the  blood 
slowly  back  to  my  heart.  But  then  the  evening  air  was 
damp  and  chill,  and  my  limbs,  by  the  unaccustomed  expo 
sure,  felt  benumbed  and  dead.  I  began  to  fear  that  I  might 
stiffen  in  that  position,  when,  luckily,  the  party  moved 
slowly  away. 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  —  shut  them  instantly.  In  that 
glance,  rapid  as  lightning,  I  encountered  a  pair  of  full-orbed, 
blue,  girlish  eyes  gazing  intently  at  me  from  beneath  a  co- 


MY  METAMORPHOSIS  7 

quettish  hat  streaming  with  ribbons  that  rocked  like  some 
fairy  boat  over  a  tempestuous  sea  of  golden  curls.  I  dared 
not  look  again. 

"  Ada,  Ada !  have  you  fallen  in  love  with  the  statue  ?  " 

"  No,  I  *m  coming  !  "  —  and  the  rustling  dress  and  fairy 
voice  moved  away. 

I  waited  in  fear  and  trembling.  For  the  first  time  I  felt 
unnerved.  Had  she  discovered  me  ?  I  felt  myself  already 
ignominiously  expelled  from  the  fatal  garden  like  the  sinful 
Adam  —  but  alas,  without  the  solace  of  the  beautiful  Eve. 
Five  minutes  passed,  I  ventured  to  look  again.  All  was 
dark.  I  could  hear  the  singing  of  voices  high  up  on  the 
garden  terrace.  — To  step  from  my  uneasy  elevation  by  the 
light  of  the  rising  moon,  as  soon  as  my  cramped  limbs  would 
permit,  run  around  to  the  opposite  shore,  hurry  on  my 
clothes,  and  through  thicket  and  brake  reach  the  park  lodge, 
was  the  work  of  a  moment.  That  night  I  left  the  village. 
That  week  I  left  England. 

I  went  to  France.  I  went  to  Germany.  I  went  to 
Italy.  Three  years  passed.  My  imagination  and  enthusi 
asm  were  more  under  control.  I  began  to  think  better  of 
society.  I  had  painted  several  large  pictures,  allegorical 
and  fanciful,  with  prominent  female  figures  with  blue  eyes 
and  golden  hair.  They  were  not  appreciated.  I  had 
painted  some  portraits  for  which  I  was  remunerated  hand 
somely,  and  had  amassed  an  independence.  I  lived  at 
Florence.  I  was  happy. 

The  saloons  of  the  Due  de  K were  filled  one  evening 

with  a  pleasant  party  of  painters,  sculptors,  poets,  and  au 
thors.  I  had  the  entree  there,  and  was  formally  introduced 
to  a  Mr.  Willoughby,  an  English  gentleman,  who  was  trav 
eling  for  his  health  in  company  with  an  only  daughter. 
Our  acquaintance  ripened  into  esteem,  and  calling  one  even 
ing  at  my  studio  to  examine  the  portrait  of  a  mutual  friend, 
he  proposed  that  I  should  make  a  picture  of  his  daughter.  I 


8  MY  METAMORPHOSIS 

was  introduced  to  Ada  Willoughby,  and  she  became  my 
sitter. 

She  was  a  pretty  blonde,  with  whom  three  years  before, 
I  might  have  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight.  But  a  restraint 
seemed  to  be  over  us  when  together,  and  I  vainly  tried  to 
shake  off  some  fanciful  recollection  with  which  her  pretty 
face  seemed  inseparably  associated.  She  was  a  clever  girl, 
a  genial  companion,  and  our  tastes  assimilated.  I  painted 
her  features  faithfully  —  the  picture  was  admired  —  but 
when  I  found  that,  like  Raphael's  Fornarina,  I  was  apt 
to  introduce  some  of  her  features  in  all  my  portraits,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  in  love  with  her.  The 
old  restraint  kept  my  heart  from  expression.  One  day 
we  were  walking  through  one  of  the  galleries  when  we 
stopped  before  an  exquisite  picture  of  Pygmalion's  trans 
formation.  I  challenged  her  faith  in  the  story.  She  replied 
simply  that  it  was  a  "  pretty  fable."  "  But  if  Pygmalion 
had  been  a  woman  and  the  sculptured  figure  a  man,  do 
you  imagine  her  love  could  have  warmed  him  to  life  ?  " 
I  persisted.  She  replied  that  "  any  woman  was  a  fool  to  fall 
in  love  with  the  mere  physical  semblance  of  a  man." 
Disappointed,  but  why  I  did  not  clearly  know,  I  did  not 
rejoin. 

But  she  was  to  return  to  England.  I  had  endeavored  to 
reason  myself  out  of  a  feeling  which  was  beginning  to  exert 
an  influence  over  my  future.  A  party  had  been  formed  to 
visit  a  villa  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  and  I  was  to  ac 
company  her.  The  grounds  were  tastefully  adorned  ;  there 
were  groups  of  statuary,  and  the  never-failing  Italian  acces 
sories  of  rills  and  fountains.  A  gay  party  we  were,  making 
the  alleys  ring  with  laughter.  At  length  Mr.  Willoughby, 
Ada,  a  few  ladies,  and  myself,  seated  ourselves  by  the  mar 
gin  of  an  artificial  lake,  from  whose  centre  a  trickling  foun 
tain  sent  its  spray  toward  the  clear  blue  sky.  The  evening 
was  deliciously  cool  and  Ada  lent  her  sweet  voice  to  the 


MY  METAMORPHOSIS  9 

rippling  water.  I  had  fallen  into  a  reverie,  from  which 
I  was  recalled,  accused  of  unsociability,  and  taxed  to  con 
tribute  to  the  amusement  of  the  day. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "  politeness  forbade  me  to  sing  before 
Miss  Willoughby,  and  prudence  forbids  my  singing  after. 
What  shall  I  do?  " 

"  A  story,  a  story, "  said  they. 

"  What  shall  it  be  ?  Of  love  or  war,  or  a  most i  lament 
able  comedy '  ?  " 

"Oh,  a  love  story,"  said  Ada,  "full  of  fairies,  knights, 
dragons,  and  disconsolate  damsels,  —  something  like  your 
pictures — with  lights  and  shadows  — and  dark  gray  masses, 
and  rather  vague !  " 

"  With  a  moral,"  said  papa. 

* '  To  hear  is  to  obey,"  replied  I ;  "  I  call  my  story  '  The 
most  Mournful  and  Pathetic  Story  of  the  Enchanted 
Knights,  or  the  Wicked  Naiad.'  " 

An  expected  pause  ensued,  and  I  went  on. 

"  In  the  days  of  Fairy  dynasty  there  lived  a  knight.  He 
was  young  and  adventurous.  To  him  had  been  given  the 
art  of  reproducing  that  which  caught  his  errant  fancy,  and 
the  true  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  without  which  it  has 
been  held  all  happiness  is  naught.  But  from  his  youth  he 
had  been  a  wanderer,  and  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  being 
whose  image  he  met  in  every  lake  and  fountain,  and  whose 
virtues  he  fully  appreciated.  In  return  for  his  constancy 
she  had  bestowed  upon  him  the  gifts  of  unfailing  health  and 
strength.  One  day,  in  a  distant  land,  he  traversed  a  fair 
domain,  and  amid  the  luxuries  of  taste  and  elegance,  he 
found  her  image  still.  But  she  was  loved  by  the  great 
monarch  of  the  domain,  who  had  kept  her  in  secluded  pri 
vacy.  The  knight,  being  headstrong  and  adventurous, 
rushed  to  her  forbidden  embrace.  She  received  him  coldly. 
The  chill  of  her  touch  stiffened  his  limbs  and  benumbed  his 
faculties.  He  felt  himself  gradually  turning  into  stone. 


10  MY  METAMORPHOSIS 

Alas !  the  waters  of  the  lake  in  which  she  dwelt  held  in 
solution  strange  minerals,  and  possessed  a  petrifying  quality. 
He  was  found  by  the  monarch  and  placed  on  a  pedestal,  as 
an  example  to  warn  others  from  a  like  unlawful  intrusion." 

"  How  delightfully  obscure  !  "  said  Ada. 

"  Mark  the  sequel.  For  a  long  time  he  remained  in  this 
state  ;  motionless  but  not  senseless,  mute  but  not  passion 
less.  The  subjects  of  the  monarch  passed  before  him  with 
ironical  comments  and  jests  and  jeers.  He  was  powerless 
to  reply.  But  it  chanced  that  a  good  fairy  passed  that 
way.  She  possessed  the  power  of  disarming  wicked  en 
chantment  and  restoring  all  unnatural  changes,  for  which 
she  repaid  herself  by  making  the  subject  her  vassal  forever. 
She  bent  her  luminous  eyes  on  the  petrified  knight,  and 
their  glances  melted  away  the  icy  torpor  which  clung  to 
him.  Under  their  genial  sunshine  his  lids  opened  as  a 
flower,  his  own  eyes  reflected  back  the  love  that  lent  him 
life.  He  moved  and  was  again  a  man." 

"And  of  course  gave  up  hydropathy  for  matrimony," 
interrupted  papa. 

I  did  not  answer,  for  Ada  claimed  my  attention.  The 
blood  had  climbed  step  by  step  into  her  cheek,  and  at  last 
the  red  signal  of  the  success  of  my  stratagem  waved  from 
the  topmost  turret.  She  looked  at  me  and  said  nothing, 
but  the  look  bade  me  hope. 

I  need  not  continue ;  my  story  is  done.  I,  of  course, 
managed  to  have  a  tete-k-tete  with  my  former  acquaintance 
and  generous  friend  —  my  new  love  and  charming  sitter  — 
before  she  left  for  England.  What  transpired  the  reader 
may  guess.  The  only  answer  I  shall  transcribe  was  given 
some  time  after  the  great  affirmative  which  made  me  forever 
blessed. 

"  But,  Ada,  my  darling,  how  was  it  that  your  bright 
eyes  alone  detected  in  the  marble  statue  a  living  impos 
ture?" 


MY  METAMORPHOSIS  11 

"  Why,"  said  Ada,  looking  saucily  into  my  eyes,  "  I 
never  before  saw  a  marble  statue  with  a  plain  gold  ring 
upon  its  little  finger." 

So  I  took  the  treacherous  ornament  from  my  little  finger 
and  placed  it  on  her  hand. 


BOGGS   ON  THE   HOUSE1 

I  HATE  horses.  From  the  time  I  first  read,  "  the  horse 
is  a  noble  and  useful  animal,"  my  youthful  skepticism  merged 
into  an  unconquerable  dislike  for  that  useful  and  noble  an 
imal.  I  have  endeavored  to  overcome  the  repugnance  from 
a  deference  to  popular  opinion,  and  have  not  succeeded.  I 
have  made  peaceful  overtures  to  their  indignant  "  manes," 
which  have  been  scornfully  rejected.  Falling  back  on  my 
natural  principles,  I  hate  horses,  and  am  confident  the  feel 
ing  —  like  most  indefinable  dislikes  —  is  reciprocal. 

I  very  much  doubt  whether  horses  were  ever  intended 
for  the  use  of  mankind.  The  Aztecs,  a  highly  intelligent 
race  of  people,  now  unhappily  extinct,  held  the  nugatory 
opinion.  I  believe  the  mythological  fable  of  the  Centaur 
to  be  simply  a  figurative  satire  upon  a  barbarous  custom, 
and  the  incidents  connected  with  the  fall  of  Troy  I  have 
ever  looked  upon  as  a  typical  judgment. 

I  never  could  ride,  but  have  envied  good  riders.  It  was, 
however,  when  I  imagined  it  to  be  an  accomplishment  with 
in  the  range  of  human  acquirement.  I  am  now  fully  con 
vinced  that  some  men  are  born  riders,  as  others  are  born 
poets,  and  that  a  knowledge  of  equilibrio  possessed  by  the 
meanest  member  of  the  profession,  and  instinctive  in  monkeys, 
is  all  that  is  required.  If  I  formerly  envied,  I  now  pity 
such  men,  and  place  them  on  an  intellectual  level  with 
Mons.  Caribmari,  who  suspends  his  ridiculous  anatomy  from 
a  perpendicular  pole. 

Barring  that  silly  stuff  about  Pegasus,  I  do  not  think 
horses  can  be  considered  poetically.  Byron,  who  sung 
l  Golden  Era,  May  20,  1860. 


BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE  13 

their  praises,  on  the  authority  of  Lady  Blessington,  was  a 
snob  and  cockney  in  his  equine  practice  ;  I  never  heard 
that  Shakespeare  —  who,  you  remember,  extolled  Adonis's 
horse  like  a  jockey  —  was  a  rider,  and  that  absurd  individ 
ual  who  wanted  but  an  "Arab  steed,"  as  a  preliminary  to 
feats  of  great  valor  and  renown,  was,  I  shrewdly  suspect, 
some  low  horse- thief  or  highwayman. 

Conscious  of  this,  I  might  go  down  to  my  grave,  satisfied 
with  myself  and  the  world,  but  for  a  solitary  incident  em 
bittering  the  past;  an  event  that  never  recurs  to  me  with 
out  a  sigh,  a  flushed  cheek,  and  accelerated  pulse,  and  a 
glance  at  these  four  white  walls  of  my  bachelor  apartment 
as  I  think  how  they  might  once  have  been  changed  for  the 
purple  hangings  of  Hymen. 

I  loved  Kate  Trotter,  and  why  ?  Was  it  that  small 
classical  head  with  little  round  curls  clustering  over  her 
alabaster  forehead,  like  purple  grapes  over  a  marble  wall ; 
that  complexion  chaste  and  delicate  as  the  flush  of  some 
pink-dyed  shell ;  the  frank,  daring  eye  and  lithe,  sinuous 
figure,  graceful  and  indolent  as  a  Spanish  poem  ?  None  of 
these,  though  each  and  all  might  have  melted  the  heart  of 
an  anchorite  ;  but  simply  because  she  could  ride !  Alas,  fol 
lowing  the  magnetic  affinity  of  opposite  poles,  I  loved  her 
for  the  existence  of  those  qualities  which  I  myself  lacked. 

We  walked  and  talked  together.  Our  tastes  with  this 
one  exception  were  mutual.  We  talked  of  books  and  poetry, 
and  by  degrees  our  theme  merged  insensibly  into  the  one 
passionate  principle  from  which  the  charm  of  song  and  min 
strelsy  had  sprung.  As  a  neighbor  of  the  Trotters,  my  visits 
were  not  remarkable,  and  recognizing,  blandly,  the  prejudices 
of  the  paternal  Trotter,  and  gossiping  with  the  maternal 
Trotter,  and  suffering  the  society  of  the  fraternal  Trotter, 
who,  gracefully  assuming  the  claims  of  relationship,  bor 
rowed  my  money  and  smoked  my  cigars  —  I  became  the  ad 
mirer  of  Kate  Trotter. 


14  BOGGS  ON  THE   HORSE 

They  were  happy,  blissful  days  —  to  sit  with  her  under 
the  friendly  shade  of  the  Trotter  portico,  her  soft  white 
hand  supporting  her  dimpled  cheek,  and  straying  curls  made 
darker  and  glossier  by  the  contrast,  to  hear  her  sweet  con 
tralto  voice  melting  with  pathos,  or  swelling  with  every 
line  of  the  spirited  page  she  read,  was  happiness  too  ecstatic 
for  duration.  I  felt  it  so,  and  knew  that  fate  was  prepar 
ing  for  me  a  crusher. 

For  there  were  moments  when  my  joy  was  tinged  with 
an  indefinable  dread.  It  was  when  I  have  watched  her, 
with  girlish  glee  petting  and  bullying  a  little  agile  pony, 
in  my  eyes  a  fiend  incarnate,  but  which  she  persisted  in 
styling  her  "  bonnie  Bess."  She  always  became  her  eques 
trian  habit,  and  omitting  the  ungraceful  masculine  head 
piece,  she  wore  a  charming  little  affair,  all  fur  and  feathers, 
with  a  grace  peculiarly  her  own.  It  was  a  pleasant  part  of 
a  stroll  to  doff  my  hat  to  her  in  some  shady  lane  in  return 
for  the  graceful  wave  of  her  riding-whip,  and  turn  and  watch 
the  fleeting,  graceful  figure  as  she  rode  by. 

It  was  shortly  after  meeting  her  on  one  of  these  occasions, 
that  I  fixed  upon  a  fatal  resolve. 

I  began  to  practice  equitation  secretly.  I  bought  me  a 
horse  warranted  kind  and  gentle.  He  was  quite  meek  and 
obliging  when  I  bought  him,  but  under  my  gentle  treat 
ment,  the  innate  devil,  which  I  firmly  believe  animates  these 
brutes  to  a  greater  or  less  degree  in  proportion  to  their  sub 
jection,  gradually  developed  itself.  By  dint  of  hard  prac 
tice  I  managed  to  get  up  a  show  of  confidence  I  was  far 
from  feeling,  and  soon  became  habituated  to  the  dizziness 
which  a  mount  to  the  saddle  invariably  occasioned.  I  then 
practiced  equestrian  exercises  at  the  lonely  hours  of  twilight, 
in  unfrequented  and  sequestered  byroads.  My  ingenious 
companion  at  such  times,  being  too  lazy  to  be  actively  vi 
cious,  assumed  a  quiet  obstinacy  which  never  deserted  him. 
So  I  soon  discovered  that,  with  far-seeing  equine  penetration, 


BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE  15 

he  had  fathomed  the  character  of  his  rider  and  cherished 
for  him  a  suitable  contempt.  An  unlooked-for  event  inter 
rupted  my  experience.  It  was  just  after  nightfall  after  a 
month's  such  practice  —  jogging  homeward  to  the  inflexible 
trot  of  my  noble  brute  —  that  I  was  startled  by  the  rapid 
clattering  of  hoofs  along  the  lonely  road,  and  bending  all 
my  energies  to  guiding  my  horse  to  the  roadside,  I  looked 
up  just  in  time  to  catch  the  happy  glance  of  Kate's  bright 
eyes  and  felt  the  electrical  thrill  of  her  riding-dress  as  she 
brushed  by  me. 

Well,  my  secret  was  out  —  discerned  by  her,  too,  from 
whom  I  most  wished  it  concealed.  In  vain  I  met  the  diffi 
culty  boldly,  and  when  Kate  rallied  me  on  what  she  called 
my  solitary  and  selfish  amusement,  I  calmly  alluded  to  the 
necessity  of  a  regular  and  limited  exercise,  as  ordered  by 
my  physician.  Alas!  a  few  days  afterward  I  received  a 
delicately  written  epistle,  in  Kate's  own  dear  little  hand, 
inviting  me  to  join  a  select  party  of  equestrians  to  the  neigh 
boring  town  of  Pumpkinsville,  on  next  Sunday  afternoon. 

I  knew  what  that  "  select  party"  meant.  It  was  Papa 
Trotter,  Mamma  Trotter,  and  Tom  Trotter,  in  whose  sublime 
creation  an  admirable  horse  jockey  had  been  spoiled,  and 
a  certain  Captain  Echellon,  of  the  dragoons, — who  was  dis 
agreeably  friendly  to  Kate,  I  thought,  and  a  good  rider. 
In  the  first  feeling  of  mortification  which  accompanied  the 
perusal  of  this  note,  I  thought  of  declining  —  excuses,  in 
disposition,  etc.,  as  I  eagerly  compared  my  own  unskillful- 
ness  with  those  practiced  riders. 

Then  I  half  changed  my  mind.  I  looked  from  my  win. 
dow,  where  my  sagacious  friend  was  cropping  the  tall  grass, 
aud  reflected  that  after  all  he  was  not  such  a  bad-looking 
animal.  That  I  had  him  (partly)  under  subjection.  Then 
I  flattered  myself  that  my  unskillfulness  might  be  over 
looked,  and  resolutely  set  myself  against  any  unnecessary 
display.  Latterly,  I  thought  of  Kate.  That  last  was  a 


16  BOGGS   ON   THE   HORSE 

fruitful  subject.  I  looked  forward  to  the  dim  future  of  to 
morrow,  and  saw  only  myself  and  Kate  riding  side  by  side 
down  a  pleasant  shadowy  lane.  We  were  alone,  save  the 
sighing  winds  and  the  whispering  of  leafy  boughs;  her 
bridle  hanging  loosely  upon  her  arm,  my  hand  clasping  hers. 
Heaven  knows  how  far  away  I  might  have  wandered,  but 
I  was  awakened  from  a  blissful  dream  in  which  Kate  re 
clined  in  my  arms,  those  ravishing  curls  nestling  in  my 
bosom,  and  that  dear  little  hat  hanging  over  my  shoulder, 
by  the  Trotter  courier,  who  requested  an  answer.  Seizing 
my  pen,  I  hurriedly  indited  a  few  irrevocable  lines,  accept 
ing  the  invitation,  and  sealing  my  destiny  forever. 

I  slept  well  that  night ;  they  say  that  doomed  culprits 
usually  do  on  the  night  preceding  the  fatal  day,  and  I  have 
heard  my  friend  Trigger  aver  that  he  has  been  awakened  by 
his  second  from  a  most  blissful  repose  for  the  morning's  con 
flict.  I  ate  my  breakfast  and  mid-day  meal  calmly,  and  be 
stowing  a  little  extra  care  on  my  toilet  in  view  of  my  re 
flections  of  the  preceding  day  (thirty  years  ago  I  did  not 
call  it  vanity),  at  the  appointed  hour  I  mounted  my  steed 
and  set  out  for  the  Trotters'. 

It  must  have  been  that  my  beast  wanted  exercise,  for  he 
actually  exhibited  considerable  animation  in  that  short  ride. 
It  was,  therefore,  with  a  feeling  of  redoubled  assurance  that 
I  entered  the  courtyard  where  the  company  were  already 
assembled.  I  had  no  eyes  for  aught  but  Kate.  She  looked 
supremely  beautiful.  A  light  blue  bodice  clasped  her  lovely 
waist  (as  well  it  might)  from  which  a  black  riding-skirt  fell 
in  graceful  folds.  I  even  cast  an  approving  glance  on  "  Bon 
nie  Bess,"  so  had  the  proximity  of  her  lovely  mistress  beat 
ified  her.  We  rode  out;  Trotter,  senior  and  junior,  taking 
the  lead ;  the  Captain,  who  mounted  a  superb  black  charger, 
looking,  as  I  thought,  diabolically  self-possessed  and  satis 
fied,  and  lastly  —  blissful  arrangement  —  Kate  and  myself. 

My  pen  falters  at  the  bare  recollection.     As  we  emerged 


BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE  17 

from  that  gate,  sir,  Kate  by  my  side  and  the  gallant  Captain 
before  me,  my  infernal  beast  stopped.  I  attempted  to  urge 
him  on,  but  to  no  purpose.  Crimson  with  shame,  I  fran 
tically  applied  my  whip  to  his  insensible  shoulders.  He 
did  not  move.  I  might  as  well  have  bestrode  a  whipping 
post.  He  stood  there,  grim,  impassive,  immovable  as  the 
nightmare,  only  he  was  a  dreadful  fact.  I  dismounted  and 
the  cavalcade  halted,  my  own  Kate  among  them,  and  eyed 
me,  I  felt,  critically.  I  remounted  him,  and  a  like  scene 
ensued.  I  looked  appealingly  at  the  elder  Trotter. 

"  He  won't  go  ?  "  said  that  venerable  parent,  inquiringly. 

"Staky?"  said  Master  Tom. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Boggs  had  better  let  Miss  Trotter  lead 
him,"  said  somebody.  I  looked  at  Captain  Echellon  —  that 
gentleman  was  busy  in  fixing  his  stirrup  just  then,  but  our 
eyes  met,  and  we  knew  we  were  deadly  rivals  henceforth 
and  forever. 

"Oh,  papa!  papa!  I've  just  thought  of  it — it  would  be 
a  pity  to  lose  any  of  our  company — let  Mr.  Boggs  have 
Selim;  do,  pa!"  And  the  dear  girl  made  up  an  enchanting 
mouth  which  might  have  softened  the  heart  of  a  chancery 
lawyer. 

The  old  gentleman  eyed  me  dubiously  for  a  moment,  and 
a  half-intelligent,  half-suspicious  glance  passed  from  father 
to  son  as  the  latter  proceeded  to  obey  the  paternal  command. 

In  the  mean  time  I  proceeded  to  extricate  my  beast  from 
Miss  Trotter's  geraniums,  among  which  he  had  been  im 
pelled  by  his  extraordinary  voracity,  which  was  one  of-  his 
least  objectionable  qualities  —  and  had  silently  and  sadly 
removed  the  saddle  when  Master  Tom  reappeared  leading 
my  intended  charger. 

I  looked  at  him  anxiously ;  I  know  nothing  of  the  points 
of  a  horse,  and  detest  the  mention  of  such  details  as  flank, 
fetlock,  pastern,  gambrel,  etc.  I  did  not  look  at  anything 
but  his  face,  and  as  I  looked  I  made  up  my  mind  to  lose  a  leg 


18  BOGGS  ON  THE   HORSE 

or  arm  for  Miss  Trotter.  His  eyes  had  a  dim,  forge-like 
glow,  and  revolved  in  eccentric  orbits,  with  occasional  white 
flashes  of  heat  lightning,  but  with  a  fixed  expression  of 
deviltry  that  their  wanderings  could  not  conceal.  "  He  is 
gay,"  said  Master  Tom;  " feels  his  oats,  and  you  have  but 
to  hold  his  head  up  and  let  him  slide."  I  mounted  him 
carefully,  Master  Tom  holding  his  head,  and  he  acknowl 
edged  the  act  by  a  sinuous,  snake-like  contraction  of  the 
dorsal  muscles,  which  at  once  had  the  effect  of  destroying 
whatever  preconception  I  might  have  had  of  the  solidity 
of  the  saddle.  I  then  followed  my  charmer  out  of  the  gate 
with  the  solemnity  of  a  chief  mourner.  We  had  not  pro 
ceeded  many  rods  before  the  exuberant  gayety  of  Selim 
manifested  itself  with  most  marked  and  painful  distinctness. 
First  he  proceeded  up  the  road  sideways,  occasionally  pre 
ferring  the  green  path  to  the  dusty  road ;  then  he  displayed 
the  most  charming  hesitation,  backing  from  Trotter  senior 
to  Trotter  junior;  then  he  persisted  in  carrying  his  head  up 
and  his  tail  down,  and  then  changing  his  mind  he  surveyed 
the  road,  backward,  from  between  his  fore  legs. 

It  was  a  hot  day.  I  at  least  supposed  so,  for  the  perspir 
ation  rolled  down  my  cheeks  as  I  worked  away  at  my 
cursed  brute.  Kate  directed  a  few  words  to  me,  in  hope, 
dear  girl,  to  change  the  current  of  my  thoughts,  but  I  had 
no  devotion  for  anything  but  the  vicious  quadruped  be 
neath  me.  She  finally  joined  the  Captain  ahead.  Master 
Tom  attended  me,  occasionally  issuing  orders,  as  to  "  hold 
ing  his  head,"  and  " giving  him  the  spur,"  and  otherwise 
"  putting  it  to  him,"  but  he  soon  rode  forward,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  my  four-footed  devil.  Whatever  love  I 
might  have  had  for  the  dear  girl  who  had  thus  placed  me 
in  this  diabolical  situation  had  vanished  when  I  mounted 
the  malevolent  Selim. 

So  I  watched  her  retreating  figure  with  a  dogged  feeling 
of  dislike,  and  saw  her  bending  to  the  gallant  Captain's 


BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE  19 

compliments ;  then  my  fear  grew  wrath,  and  my  wrath  waxed 
fierce. 

I  dashed  my  spurs  into  the  sides  of  the  revolting  beast, 
who  acknowledged  the  act  by  two  or  three  bounds,  which 
brought  my  heart  to  my  throat  and  my  head  between  his 
ears,  and  Kate  —  Oh,  Kate  —  turning  back,  looked  at 
me  and  laughed!  Had  it  been  a  smile,  a  tender  smile, 
such  as  love  may  wear,  —  had  it  been  arch  or  playful,  —  but 
a  laugh  at  such  a  moment,  a  distinct,  palpable  grin,  an  audi 
ble  cachinnation,  was  too  much  for  my  excited  nerves. 

I  had  the  remembrance  of  that  laugh  in  my  "mind's  eye" 
long  after  she  and  her  companions  had  disappeared  at  the 
entrance  of  the  green  lane  which  led  to  the  pleasant  town 
of  Pumpkinville.  I  and  Selim  were  alone. 

I  checked  him  gently,  and  walked  along  the  green  sod, 
my  mind  occupied  with  horrid  thoughts  of  vengeance  on  the 
Captain,  and  incomprehensible  hatred  for  Kate.  Perhaps 
the  stillness  of  the  warm  summer  air  and  the  absence  of 
embarrassing  spectators  caused  me  to  make  a  last  attempt  at 
gaining  the  mastery  of  my  quadrupedal  enemy.  To  go  back 
I  could  not;  to  go  forward  in  my  present  condition,  impos 
sible;  and  so,  gathering  the  reins  and  the  remnants  of  my 
self-possession,  braced  myself  for  a  final  struggle. 

I  sunk  the  spur  into  his  flank  rowel-deep,  at  the  same 
moment  bringing  down  the  whip  over  his  haunches.  He 
balanced  himself  for  a  single  instant  on  his  hind  legs,  gave 
a  sickening  leap,  and  the  next  moment  was  off  like  a  sky 
rocket. 

The  first  shock  threw  me  forward  on  his  neck,  and  grasp 
ing  his  mane  with  both  hands,  I  dropped  the  hollow  mockery 
of  a  whip,  and  clung  to  him  as  the  shipwrecked  mariner 
clings  to  a  tossing  spar.  The  stones  flew  from  the  track 
and  the  fences  twinkled  by  us  as  the  clattering  hoofs  trampled 
down  the  road.  I  had  no  control  over  him,  but  I  did  not 
expect  to,  and  was  prepared  for  the  worst. 


20  BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE 

But,  oh,  not  such  a  denouement!  We  had  already 
rushed  into  the  wooded  lane  with  the  speed  of  an  express 
train,  which  was  momentarily  increasing,  for  the  reckless 
combination  of  bone  and  sinew  beneath  was  beginning  to 
"feel  his  oats"  with  a  vengeance. 

Not  far  ahead  of  us  the  Captain  and  Kate  were  riding 
together.  The  road  was  narrow,  scarcely  permitting  two  to 
ride  abreast,  and  was  fenced  to  keep  out  the  rank  underbrush. 
I  comprehended  the  danger  instantly,  but  was  powerless  to 
help  them;  my  shout  would  not  have  been  heard  in  time, 
and  I  was  too  much  exhausted  for  a  protracted  effort  of  any 
kind.  They  did  not  hear  me  till  we  were  upon  them.  I 
saw  the  Captain  hurriedly  rein  in  his  steed,  and  his  placid, 
self-satisfied  expression  gave  way  to  a  look  of  alarm.  I  saw 
the  blood  depart  from  poor  Kate's  cheek  and  her  happy  smile 
vanish  as  she  urged  her  Bonnie  Bess  forward.  I  remember 
experiencing  a  wicked  satisfaction  as  Selim  and  I  dashed 
down  upon  the  gallant  Captain.  The  shock  was  terrific. 
The  Captain  was  a  good  rider,  his  steed  a  gallant  one,  but 
Selim  "  felt  his  oats,"  and  down  they  went,  rider  and  horse, 
at  my  resistless  charge,  and  Selim,  with  a  neigh  like  a  trumpet 
call,  sped  onward.  And  now  I  was  at  Kate's  side.  Bon 
nie  Bess  was  doing  her  best,  but  I  swept  past  them.  There 
was  a  momentary  struggle ;  I  felt  myself  entangled  in  the 
folds  of  Kate's  riding-skirt.  My  heart  grew  sick  as  the 
poor  girl  was  almost  dragged  from  the  saddle  as  she  clung 
in  terror  to  her  pony's  mane  ;  but,  thank  God  !  strings  are 
fragile  and  hooks  and  eyes  will  break,  and  I  shot  ahead  at  last 
with  the  poor  thing's  riding-skirt  fluttering  entire  —  a  trophy 
of  victory  —  from  my  dangling  stirrup ! 

I  had  expected  a  fatal  termination  to  this  day's  mishaps ; 
and  after  this  last  catastrophe  I  looked  upon  death,  —  utter 
annihilation, — as  a  welcome  relief.  I  was  destined  to  another 
mortal  shame,  however,  for  as  Selim  and  I,  with  unabated 
speed,  entered  the  long  street  of  Pumpkinville,  I  heard  a 


BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE  21 

faint  familiar  voice  imploring  me  to  stop.  I  looked  around 
and— r  Oh,  why  didn't  the  earth  open  a  terrible  pitfall  in 
my  cursed  brute's  track !  —  there  was  Kate,  poor  Kate, 
scarce  a  length  behind  me,  Bonnie  Bess  putting  her  best 
foot  foremost  and  perfectly  uncontrollable,  with  her  blush 
ing  mistress  cowering  over  her  mane,  and  striving,  oh !  how 
vainly,  to  cover  her  pretty  ankles,  with  her  all  too  abbrevi 
ated —  well,  I  must  say  it  —  petticoat. 

Church  had  just  been  dismissed,  and  the  youth,  beauty, 
and  fashion  of  Pumpkinville  lounged  down  its  one  broad 
street.  The  Keverend  Jedediah  Higgins,  his  wife  and  six 
lovely  daughters,  were  standing  at  the  church  door;  the 
parson  engaged  in  post-sermonial  explanation,  the  daughters 
consoling  themselves  for  three  hours'  past  vacuity,  by  the 
most  violent  flirtation  with  youthful  Pumpkinvillians.  I 
closed  my  eyes  as  I  swept  by  the  sacred  edifice,  and  wished 
myself  quietly  "inurned"  in  one  of  the  grassy  vaults  be 
side  it.  I  dared  not  look  at  Kate,  but  oh,  they  did ! 

The  Pumpkinville  hotel  affords  entertainment  for  man 
and  beast.  There  were  a  number  of  both  species  scattered 
about  its  vicinity.  I  remember  Papa  and  Mamma  Trotter 
rushing  out  frantically  as  we  dashed  up  to  the  horse  trough 
at  the  door.  I  am  not  quite  certain,  but  I  think  I  won  the 
race  down  the  Pumpkinville  road  about  a  length.  I  re 
member  nothing  more  until  I  was  found  the  next  morning 
lying  in  my  bed  —  drunk. 

I  was  some  time  recovering.  When  I  got  able  to  be  out, 
I  found  a  challenge  from  Captain  Echellon  lying  on  my 
table.  Unless  some  person  connected  with  the  establish 
ment  has  removed  it,  it  lies  there  yet. 

I  never  saw  Kate  afterward. 

I  have  not  ridden  since. 

Ten  years  after,  walking  down  Broadway,  my  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  crowd  of  people  standing  around  an  om 
nibus  that  blocked  up  the  thoroughfare.  Making  my  way 


22  BOGGS  ON  THE  HORSE 

through  the  crowd,  I  found  that  one  of  the  horses  had 
been  vicious  and  uncontrollable,  and  had  now  persistently 
refused  to  budge  an  inch.  He  was  a  wicked-looking  brute, 
standing  over  the  omnibus  pole,  surveying  the  crowd  with 
a  dogged  look,  while  two  men  were  engaged  in  beating  him 
over  the  head  with  clubs.  I  think  some  foolish  persons  en 
deavored  to  interfere.  Why  did  I  suddenly  dash  forward, 
seize  the  weapon  from  the  assailant's  hand,  and  myself  fran 
tically  break  it  over  the  animal's  devilish  forehead  ?  In 
that  moment,  sir,  I  saw  only  retribution  and  my  old  never- 
to-be-forgotten  enemy  and  blaster  of  all  my  happiness  on 
earth,  the  incorrigible  Selim.  I  was  avenged. 


STORY   OF  THE   REVOLUTION1 

AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    LIFE    OP    MY    GREAT-UNCLE 

HE  was  a  Van  Doozle.  As  a  descendant  of  that  ancient 
family,  I  may  assert,  without  unbecoming  pride,  that  to  be 
a  Van  Doozle  signified,  in  the  days  of  which  I  write,  some 
thing  and  somebody.  The  Van  Doozles,  in  1779,  were  a 
Dutch  family,  residing  somewhere  between  New  York  and 
Albany,  on  the  Hudson,  and  my  great-grand-uncle  was  an 
only  son. 

Great  men  are  usually  indebted  to  circumstances  and  great 
events  for  their  elevation.  The  French  Revolution  brought 
forth  a  Napoleon ;  our  own  Revolution  a  Washington  and 
Van  Doozle.  It  is  true  that  in  this  latter  illustration,  one 
was  commander-in-chief  in  the  American  army  and  the  other 
only  a  sergeant  in  the  same;  yet  the  subordinate,  to  every 
reflective  man,  fulfilled  his  duty  as  well  as  his  superior.  I 
do  not  wish  to  detract  from  the  well-merited  fame  of  George 
Washington,  but  as  a  descendant  of  the  hero  of  this  tale,  I 
cannot  allow  the  ashes  of  oblivion  to  be  heaped  upon  the 
memory  of  Yont  Van  Doozle,  sergeant  in  the  Continental 
forces,  but  particularly  attached  to  that  regiment  of  cavalry 
known  as  Lee's  Legion. 

Every  American  has  heard  of  the  Legion.  Scouting  the 
eastern  bank  of  the  Hudson,  they  were  a  formidable  check 
upon  the  ravages  of  "cowboys"  and  " rangers"  over  that 
country  lying  between  White  Plains  and  New  York  City, 
known  as  the  "  Neutral  Ground."  The  insecurity  of  prop 
erty,  through  the  boldness  of  some  of  these  predatory  ex 
cursions,  extending  into  the  little  Dutch  settlements,  ren- 
1  Golden  Era,  July  8,  1860. 


24  STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

dered  the  presence  of  an  armed  force  particularly  desirable, 
and  the  fame  of  these  dashing  dragoons  quite  won  over  the 
hearts  of  the  honest  Dutch  farmers,  and  tended  materially 
to  open  their  larders  to  the  wants  of  a  sympathizing  ally,  in 
preference  to  the  claims  of  an  insulting  foe. 

My  ancestor  was  stationed  with  his  company  in  a  certain 
quiet,  dreary,  gable-ended,  weather-cock-crowned  village, 
abutting  on  a  swelling  bay  of  the  Hudson,  which  may  still 
be  seen,  but,  alas !  for  modern  innovation,  hardly  recog 
nized.  Time  has  crumbled  the  most  remarkable  landmarks. 
Prosperity  has  erected  on  their  ruins  divers  shingle  palaces, 
and  the  well-known  crow-stepped  gables  are  replaced  by  the 
introduction  of  cottages  ornes,  Greek  villas,  mediaeval  castles, 
and  other  fatal  hallucinations  of  vulgar  minds  and  an  over 
tasked  architectural  fancy. 

On  the  principal  street,  the  principal  mansion,  in  the  good 
old  days,  was  occupied  by  one  Jacob  Bogardus,  better  known 
as  "  Yop "  Bogardus.  He  was  a  man  of  strictly  neutral 
politics.  When  the  Cowboys  favored  him  with  their  atten 
tions  and  pressed  his  hospitality,  he  was  known  to  declaim 
loudly  against  the  ragmuffins  of  the  Tory  King ;  when  cav 
alry  scouts  from  above  recruited  themselves  at  his  expense, 
he  was  much  incensed  against  the  Yankees,  whom  he  con 
signed  to  "der  tuyful,"  and  implored  the  protection  of  St. 
Nicholas  against  friends  who  lacked  that  all  essential  re 
quisite,  disinterestedness.  But  he  was  possessed  of  two 
redeeming  peculiarities  which  rendered  his  acquaintance 
profitable  to  the  old  and  desirable  to  the  young  —  he  was 
rich  and  had  a  pretty  daughter.  Alas  !  the  riches  have 
since  taken  to  themselves  wings,  and  a  certain  miniature  in 
ivory,  by  a  Low  Dutch  artist,  still  in  the  possession  of  my 
family,  is  the  only  memento  of  the  beauty  of  sixteen.  I 
wish  my  pen  were  pliant  enough  to  follow  the  curves  of  that 
plump  little  bodiced  and  short-petticoated  figure,  or  paint, 
in  anything  but  black  and  white,  her  rosy  face  and  hazel 


STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  25 

eyes.  Ah  me,  it 's  no  wonder  my  uncle  loved  her,  although 
she  was  suspected  of  sympathy  with  the  good  cause  in  which 
Yont  had  embarked  —  but  I  think  that  he  thought  more  of 
other  interests  than  his  country's  in  their  confidential  inter 
course.  Young  men  were  foolish  in  those  days,  and  if  it 
"  tried  men's  souls,"  their  hearts  sometimes  suffered  like 
wise. 

Katrina  Bogardus  was  a  horrible  coquette.  In  all  their 
confidential  intercourse  she  had  never  given  my  great-uncle 
any  definite  encouragement,  not  even  the  tip  of  her  rosy 
finger  to  kiss.  He  caught  occasional  glances,  very  expres 
sive,  but  not  capable  of  perpetuation.  She  flirted  easily 
with  others,  and  took  particular  pains  to  do  so  in  my  great- 
uncle's  presence.  When  taken  to  task  by  him  she  would 
pout  pettishly,  and  ask  him  if  she  had  n't  a  right  to  do  as 
she  liked  —  young  men  in  such  times  should  have  something 
else  to  do  than  notice  what  other  young  men  said  to  young 
women.  She  was  sure  she  did  n't  care,  however.  She 
had  n't  asked  him  to  love  her  —  in  fact  she  did  n't  believe 
that  he  did,  —  and  finally  when  the  poor  fellow  prostrated 
himself  in  abject  submission  to  the  little  Dutch  divinity, 
she  would  place  her  little  foot  (metaphorically)  on  his  neck 
and  keep  him  there. 

But  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  torturing  a  lover,  like  all 
human  enjoyments,  should  be  ruled  by  temperance.  Ka 
trina,  with  woman's  tact,  knew  just  how  far  to  go,  and  leave 
my  great-uncle  in  the  terrible  perplexity  of  not  knowing 
whether  his  own  conduct  was  not  a  sufficient  justification 
for  hers.  But  she  once  overstepped  the  mark.  And  one 
night,  on  the  25th  of  June,  1780,  my  great-uncle  "  might 
have  been  seen,"  as  your  novelist  would  have  it,  to  rush 
frantically  from  the  house,  clap  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  give 
his  beard  a  fierce  pull,  mount  his  fiery  steed,  and  driving  in 
the  spur,  gallop  away  like  a  madman. 

I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  happened.     The  house  was 


26  STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

lit  up,  and  Pompey's  fiddle  might  have  heen  heard  from  the 
parlor,  while  the  frequent  sound  of  laughter  betokened  a 
merry-making  within.  But  my  great-uncle  was  excitable. 
And  when  you  take  into  consideration  the  fact  that  Katy 
Bogardus  was  in  the  glory  of  her  beauty  and  coquetry, 
and  looked  supremely  bewitching,  that  she  had  received 
several  proposals  that  evening,  that  a  perfect  tempest  of 
sighs  raged  from  the  pent-up  bosoms  of  comely  young  farm 
ers,  that  she  flirted  indiscriminately,  and  had  been  sweetly 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  my  great-uncle,  you  may  pos 
sibly  account  for  his  irregular  proceeding.  I  think  I  should 
not  have  acted  so,  nor  would  you;  but  young  men  in  1780 
were  very  different  from  young  men  in  1860.  You  and  I 
would  have  flirted  with  some  one  else  — "  smiled "  and 
looked  on  with  indifference.  Unfortunately  my  ancestor 
was  as  incapable  of  concealing  a  real  passion  as  he  was  of 
affecting  an  artificial  one.  Such  was  the  sad  effect  of  inex 
perience  and  a  country  life. 

A  fierce  gallop  tends  to  relieve  a  man's  mind.  My  great- 
uncle  experienced  some  solace  in  driving  his  spurs  into  his 
mare's  side  by  way  of  revenge  for  the  gaping  wounds  in 
his  own.  He  made  up  his  mind  he  would  leave  her  — 
leave  his  corps  if  he  had  to  desert — he  would  join  Sumter 
in  the  South  —  he  would  forever  banish  all  remembrance  of 
the  fatal  witchery,  and  would  seek,  yes,  seek,  a  soldier's 
grave.  For  my  great-uncle,  though  fully  convinced  that 
Katrina  was  unworthy  of  his  regard,  saw  nothing  without 
her  but  misery  and  death.  He  looked  out  upon  the  swell 
ing  river  that  rolled  placidly  below  him ;  at  the  opposite 
shore,  with  its  high  promontory  casting  a  long  shadow  over 
the  sparkling  water  like  a  dark  bridge  that  spanned  the 
stream  —  and  halted.  He  looked  at  the  village  —  and 
sighed. 

A  sound  of  oars  "  cheeping  "  in  row-locks  caught  his  ear. 
He  was  in  that  frame  of  mind  that  any  occurrence  to  change 


STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  27 

the  current  of  his  thoughts  was  a  reprieve,  and  he  listened 
eagerly.  Then,  as  the  sound  became  more  sensible,  he  saw 
a  boat  approaching  the  shore  below  him.  He  remembered 
a  bridle-path,  somewhat  circuitous  and  steep,  that  led  from 
the  river  below  to  where  he  had  unconsciously  halted. 
There  were  two  men  seated  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  wrapped 
in  military  cloaks.  A  third  was  pulling.  They  reached 
the  embankment.  My  ancestor  looked  at  the  flints  of  his 
pistols,  and  returned  them  cocked  to  his  holsters.  All  this 
in  a  state  of  mechanical  expectancy  he  could  not  account 
for. 

He  did  not  wait  long,  for  presently  two  figures  appeared 
slowly  mounting  the  bank,  which  he  at  once  recognized  as 
the  strangers  of  the  boat.  They  were  conversing  earnestly. 
My  great-uncle  was  not  remarkably  bright,  but  it  struck 
him  that  the  two  strangers  had  important  business,  to  have 
crossed  the  river  at  that  hour ;  that  they  were  strangers, 
and  that  it  was  his  duty,  as  sergeant  in  Lee's  Legion  to  in 
quire  their  business.  So  spurring  his  mare  forward,  as  they 
reached  the  level  of  the  cliff,  he  interposed  his  somewhat 
athletic  figure  and  called  on  them  to  "halt." 

They  did  so,  but  more  in  astonishment  than  fear.  It 
gave  my  redoubtable  ancestor  a  chance  to  examine  them 
keenly.  Hem!  A  tall,  dark  young  man,  black-eyed  and 
aristocratic- looking  —  a  gentleman.  A  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  face  rather  old,  but  massive  and  energetic ;  a  digni 
fied  chap  —  some  white  ruffles  on  his  sleeve,  and  a  semi- 
military  style  —  a  gentleman  also.  My  great-uncle  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  pitch  into  the  slim  young  man  by  virtue 
of  his  personal  appearance,  but  was  n't  quite  so  certain  about 
the  other. 

The  younger  stepped  promptly  forward,  and,  with  a 
supercilious  air,  which  annoyed  my  ancestor  excessively, 
demanded :  — 

"  Who  are  you  that  stay  travelers  on  the  open  road  ? 


28  STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

What  authority  have  you  to  address  strangers  ?  Fall  back, 
sir!" 

My  ancestral  relative  kept  his  eye  on  the  spokesman  and 
replied,  simply :  — 

"  My  name  is  Yont  Van  Doozle.  I  am  a  sergeant  in 
Colonel  Lee's  cavalry.  Here  is  my  authority."  And  he 
produced  the  shining  barrel  of  a  pistol  from  his  holster. 

The  young  stranger  laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword  and 
stepped  impulsively,  his  dark  face  darker  grew,  and  his 
thin  cheek  lay  close  against  his  clenched  teeth ;  but  the 
elder  laid  his  ruffled  hand  gravely  upon  the  young  man's 
arm  and  turned  to  my  great-uncle :  — 

"  Do  you  not  know,  sir,  that  this  is  neutral  ground  ?  " 

"  Aye,  I  do,"  said  my  great-uncle,  "  but  the  times  are 
troublous ;  it  behooves  all  friends  of  the  cause  I  profess,  to 
be  wary.  You  are  strangers,  and  your  attire  shows  you 
are  not  of  us.  You  cannot  pass  until  you  have  given  me 
your  name,  your  rank,  and  your  business." 

This  my  great-uncle  always  thought  was  the  neatest  and 
most  emphatic  speech  he  had  ever  made.  He  drew  himself 
up  in  his  stirrups,  after  it,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  on  the  slim 
fellow,  and  calculating  that  the  clasp  of  his  military  cloak 
would  be  a  good  mark  in  case  of  emergency.  The  dark 
young  man  placed  his  hand  upon  his  sword,  and  played 
with  his  fingers  upon  the  hilt,  with  the  air  of  a  pianoforte 
player,  who  knew  something  about  the  instrument.  The 
elder  one  again  interposed,  and  conversed  for  a  moment 
earnestly  with  his  companion,  who  once  more  turned  to  my 
great-uncle  :  — 

"  We  are  two  to  your  one.  If  we  choose,  your  opposi 
tion  would  be  a  slight  barrier.  If  we  see  fit  to  comply 
with  your  demand,  what  reason  have  we  to  believe  your 
rank,  your  name  ?  You  may  be  a  Ranger,  a  Cowboy. 
Your  manners,"  added  the  young  man,  in  his  disagreeable 
way,  "  rather  indicate  the  latter !  " 


STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  29 

For  a  moment  my  great-uncle  boiled  over.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  thought  of  pistoling  the  slim  fellow  and  cleaving 
down  the  stout  one,  and  then  —  he  would  be  wounded, 
mortally  wounded,  of  course  —  he  would  drag  himself  back, 
covered  with  blood,  to  Bogardus's  house,  let  her  know  that 
he  had  killed  two  Tory  officers,  and  saved  his  country,  and 
die  in  her  hard-hearted,  pitiless  presence.  But  he  recovered 
his  temper  and  his  tongue  at  the  same  moment. 

"  I  am  rough,"  said  he,  with  a  voice  a  little  tremulous, 
but  a  steady,  kindling  eye ;  "  I  am  rough,  I  know,  but  if  I 
lie  at  such  a  moment,  I  am  the  first  of  my  family  who  have 
disgraced  their  name.  If  I  am  willing  to  believe  you,  a 
stranger,  you  should  be  as  mindful  of  me,  who  dwell  here 
upon  the  ground  you  trespass  on." 

The  elder  stranger  stepped  forward,  and  holding  out 
his  hand,  said,  in  a  stately,  dignified  way.  "  Your  hand, 
friend ;  we  have  wronged  you.  I  believe  you,  as  does  my 
friend.  Your  curiosity  shall  be  satisfied,  and  Colonel  Lee 
shall  know  the  worth  of  his  honest  sergeant." 

He  again  held  converse  with  his  young  companion,  who 
again  turned  to  my  great-uncle  :  — 

"  You  have  asked  our  names,  rank,  and  business.  I  am 
Alexander  Hamilton,  Secretary  to  the  Continental  Con 
gress."  My  uncle  started.  "  Hamilton,  the  aide-de-camp 
of—" 

He  could  only  stammer  out,  "And  your  friend  ?" 

"  Your  general  —  George  Washington." 

The  excitement,  and  possibility  of  a  dangerous  conflict, 
which  my  great-uncle  fondly  hoped  would  terminate  fatally 
for  him,  had  kept  up  his  courage  and  spirits.  That  last 
hope  gone,  and  the  horror  which  the  loyal  fellow  felt  at 
the  sacrilege  he  had  contemplated  on  the  person  of  his  be 
loved  leader,  crushed  him  completely.  He  could  only  re 
turn  his  pistol  to  its  holster,  and  hang  his  head  in  very 
shame. 


30  STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

Colonel  Hamilton  resumed  —  "Our  business  must  be 
kept  secret.  The  general,  however,  has  seen  fit  to  partly 
confide  its  execution  to  you,  as  the  lesson  you  have  taught 
us  has  convinced  us  of  the  indiscretion  of  pursuing  it  fur 
ther  in  person,  You  will  wait  here  for  an  hour.  A  young 
lad  will  come  to  this  spot  by  that  time,  and  you  will  inform 
him  that  you  are  commissioned  by  me  to  see  him  in  safety 
to  the  opposite  shore.  A  boat  will  be  in  readiness.  He 
will  return  in  an  hour,  and  you  will  guard  him  in  safety 
back.  Remember  that  you  are  to  press  him  with  no  ques 
tions.  Keep  your  own  counsel  and  you  shall  be  suitably 
rewarded.  Good-night,  Sergeant  Van  Doozle."  And,  with 
a  military  salute,  the  young  man  and  his  leader  retraced 
their  steps  toward  the  river. 

My  uncle  again  revived  his  wonted  energies.  He  dis 
mounted,  tied  his  horse  to  a  neighboring  tree,  and  seating 
himself  by  the  roadside,  waited  the  termination  of  his  ad 
venture.  He  sighed  sometimes  deeply ;  and,  of  course, 
you  know  what  he  was  thinking  about.  Do  what  he  would 
the  past  was  constantly  before  him.  The  massive  and 
dignified  features  of  his  great  leader  melted  away  to  give 
place  to  a  certain  dimpled  face  with  round  chin  and  hazel 
eyes.  Poor  fellow  !  And  when  at  the  end  of  the  hour  he 
saw  some  one  approaching,  he  almost  started  forward  with 
the  name  of  Katrina  upon  his  lips.  It  was  only  the  boy 
—  a  chubby  young  fellow  of  about  fourteen  or  fifteen,  with 
an  awkward,  constrained  air,  and  a  face  completely  muffled 
in  a  large  scarf.  He  briefly  and  almost  surlily  repeated  his 
commission,  and  led  the  way  to  the  riverside.  He  was  so 
occupied  with  his  previous  thoughts  that  he  did  not  notice 
the  startled  gesture  of  the  boy  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  or 
the  faint  sigh  that  escaped  him  as  he  passively  followed 
my  sturdy  ancestor. 

Once  within  the  boat,  my  great-uncle  seated  himself  at 
the  stern,  in  company  with  his  young  charge,  while  the 


STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  31 

boatman  rapidly  pulled  across  the  shining  expanse.  Moon 
light  only  adds  sorrowful  reflections  to  a  despairing  lover, 
and  my  great-uncle  looked  gloomily  over  the  side.  Once 
the  poor  lad  turned  with  an  inquiring  gesture  toward  him, 
but  Sergeant  Yont  answered  the  movement  by  turning  his 
back  upon  him ;  "  I  ?m  no  prying  Yankee,  they  '11  find," 
said  my  great- uncle  to  himself,  in  response  to  the  remem 
bered  injunction. 

The  hour  passed  quickly  on  the  opposite  side;  on  their 
return,  a  similar  silence  ensued.  My  great-uncle  conducted 
the  young  lad  up  the  river-bank,  and  for  the  first  time  during 
this  strange  interview  the  silence  was  broken. 

"  You  have  been  kind  to  me,"  said  the  lad,  timidly,  but 
in  a  pleasant,  musical  voice.  "  You  have  been  kind  to  me, 
and  have  fulfilled  your  duty  of  guardian  well.  Let  me 
know  your  name,  that  I  may  know  whom  to  remember  in 
my  prayers." 

There  was  a  slight  dash  of  wickedness  in  the  speech,  which 
my  uncle — who  was  conscious  of  having  behaved  like  a 
great  brute  —  could  not  help  noticing. 

He  colored  slightly,  and  answered,  in  a  desponding 
tone :  — 

"It's  no  matter,  no  matter,  we  shall  in  all  probability 
never  meet  again.  I  leave  here  to-morrow.  Farewell, 
young  sir;  I  have  done  but  my  duty.  If  I  have  done  it 
poorly  or  rudely,  pardon  me;  I  meant  no  harm."  And  the 
poor  fellow  extended  his  hand. 

But  the  lad  fell  back  a  step,  and  placed  his  hand  upon 
his  breast,  which  trembled  with  its  burthen.  A  slight  spasm 
seemed  to  agitate  him,  and  when  it  passed,  his  voice 
trembled  as  he  asked:  "But  why,  are  you  not  in  the 
Legion?" 

"I  shall  be  no  longer;  I  leave  here  to-morrow.  Good 
night  ! "  And  he  turned  away. 

"  Stay,"  interrupted  the  lad,  "  one  moment.    You  refuse 


32  STORY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

to  give  me  your  name!  I  know  it!  I  shall  never  forget 
it!  Good-bye,  Yont  Van  Doozle,  and  God  bless  you!" 

My  great-uncle  turned.  As  he  did  so,  I  am  sure  I  can 
not  tell  why,  but  the  scarf  fell  from  the  young  lad's  neck 
and  face,  and  a  multitude  of  glossy  curls  somehow  shook 
out  of  his  cap,  which  fell  off  in  the  general  confusion  and 
disarrangement  of  his  toilet.  My  great-uncle  jumped  six 
feet  forward,  exclaiming :  — 

"Katrina!" 

"Yont!" 

I  should  feel  myself  impertinent  to  describe  the  rest  of 
that  interview.  I  should  do  violence  to  the  reader's  judg 
ment  and  penetration,  if  I  stopped  to  say  how  it  was  that 
Katrina  had  been  the  faithful  ally  of  the  American  leader, 
and  how,  from  her  father's  neutrality  and  her  own  popu 
larity,  she  had  gained  the  most  valuable  information  from 
all  sources — Cowboy  and  Ranger; — and  how,  in  her  odd 
disguise,  she  had  faithfully  kept  the  American  chief  informed 
of  the  movements  of  hostile  parties  below ;  how,  in  short, 
she  was  the  most  charming  and  complete  spy  in  petticoats 
the  world  had  ever  known — and  how  her  innocence  and 
purity  was  acknowledged  by  the  great  general,  who  guarded 
her  on  these  interviews  with  a  father's  care,  and  how  she 
informed  my  great-uncle  of  this  with  many  blushes,  pouts, 
and  prettinesses,  till  the  poor  fellow  was  half  crazy. 

And  now  you  know,  too,  or  can  guess,  how  that  minia 
ture  came  into  the  legitimate  possession  of  our  family. 


A  CHILD'S  GHOST  STOEY1 

THERE  was  once  a  child  whom  people  thought  odd  and 
queer.  He  was  a  puny  little  fellow.  The  only  thing  big 
about  him  was  his  head,  and  that  was  so  disproportioned  to 
the  rest  of  his  body,  that  some  people  laughed  when  they 
saw  him.  And  to  complete  his  grotesqueness,  his  parents, 
who  were  very  learned  people  —  and  foolish  as  very  learned 
people  sometimes  are  —  gave  him  a  strange,  queer  name, 
"Poeta,"  which  meant  a  great  deal,  so  they  said;  but  his 
old  nurse  and  his  little  sister  called  him  "Etty,"  which 
meant  only  that  they  loved  him,  and  which  I  think  was  a 
great  deal  more  pleasant,  if  not  as  sensible. 

Not  but  that  his  parents  were  very  proud  of  his  peculiari 
ties  and  queer  ways.  But  they  were  very  severe  and  strict 
with  him.  He  deserved  it,  for  he  was  fretful,  peevish, 
and  impatient.  He  imagined  continually  that  people  did  n't 
love  him  as  he  would  like  them  to,  which  was  partly  the 
case ;  and  he  was  moody  and  querulous  sometimes ;  and  in 
stead  of  trying  to  find  out  why,  and  what  could  be  done  to 
help  it,  he  would  lie  down  in  his  little  crib  and  hate  every 
body.  And  then  his  big  head,  which  was  always  bothering 
him,  would  ache  dreadfully. 

But  when  he  strayed  into  the  green  fields  with  his  little 
sister,  who  could  tell  better  than  "  Etty  "  what  the  birds 
said  to  each  other,  what  the  leaves  of  the  big  elms  were 
always  whispering,  and  the  strange  stories  that  the  brook 
babbled  to  the  stones  as  it  ran  away  to  the  distant  sea? 
And  although  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  play  like  larger 
boys  with  these  things,  he  was  fond  of  lying  under  the  big 
l  Golden  Era,  August  12,  1860. 


34  A  CHILD'S  GHOST  STORY 

elm,  with  his  little  sister  supporting  his  head  on  her  lap, 
watching  all  this,  and  telling  her  about  it  and  many  other 
wonderful  things. 

But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  would  sometimes  tell  very 
queer  and  strange  stories;  he  would  tell  of  goblins  as  high 
as  the  elm,  and  of  ghosts  that  haunted  the  little  churchyard 
where  their  grandmother  slept;  and  he  would  continue  to 
repeat  them,  getting  more  and  more  terrifying  in  intensity, 
until  his  little  "Gracie"  would  open  her  big  blue  eyes  in 
pretty  terror,  and  catch  his  gesticulating  hand. 

"There  now,  Etty,  dear,"  she  once  said,  "I  don't  believe 
there  are  any  ghosts." 

"  Is  n't  there,"  said  Etty,  in  deep  scorn. 

"  No  !     Did  you  ever  see  any,  Etty  ?  " 

(This  was  another  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  and  poor 
Etty  could  n't  say  that  he  had,  but  he  was  confident  that 
other  people  had  seen  them.) 

"Well,"  said  Gracie,  "I  don't  believe  there  are  any.  I 
know  that  dead  people  lie  in  their  graves  and  make  the 
grass  grow ;  but  if  I  die,  I  '11  come  back  to  you  and  be  a 
ghost." 

And  so  to  these  little  children,  the  seasons  were  told 
over  in  flowers  and  fruits  and  different  games;  and  it  was 
kite  time,  and  the  lilacs  were  in  blossom,  when  a  great  hush 
and  quiet  fell  upon  their  home.  People  walked  about 
whispering  to  each  other,  and  Etty  was  kept  alone  in  a  room 
until  he  was  frightened  and  his  head  ached.  But  then 
Gracie  did  not  come  to  him  to  console  him.  And  when  he 
could  not  stand  it  any  longer  he  crept  into  a  little  bedroom, 
from  which  an  awe  seemed  to  spread  over  the  whole  house, 
and  there  was  a  smell  of  mignonette,  and  something  white 
lying  on  the  bed,  and  on  top  of  that  again  a  pinched  little 
white  face  that  he  knew.  And  Etty  cried. 

His  sister  had  died  in  early  spring,  and  now  it  was  the 
season  when  the  rosy-cheeked  apples  are  piled  away  in  the 


A  CHILD'S  GHOST  STOKY  35 

barn,  and  the  red  leaves  in  the  corners  of  the  lane,  and  the 
nights  were  getting  chilly,  and  Etty,  whose  health  was  poor, 
was  lying  in  his  crib  watching  the  bright  fire,  thinking  of 
the  flowers  that  had  passed  away,  when  something  soft  and 
cool  stole  over  his  face  and  rested  upon  his  forehead.  It 
was  a  little  hand  —  Grade's,  and  Gracie  stood  beside  him. 

He  remembered  what  she  had  told  him,  and  knew  it  was 
Grade's  ghost  and  he  was  not  frightened.  But  he  whis 
pered  to  her,  and  she  soothed  his  aching  head,  and  told  him 
that  when  he  was  weary,  and  his  head  ached,  she  would 
come  to  him  again,  and  that  she  was  permitted  to  visit  him 
only  that  she  might  soothe  him  when  in  trouble  and  keep 
him  from  harm.  This  and  much  more  she  whispered  to 
him  in  the  quiet  little  nursery,  and  at  last  holding  her  hand 
in  his,  he  fell  asleep. 

He  did  not  dare  to  tell  his  father  or  mother,  or  the  people 
about  him,  of  Grade's  ghost.  He  knew  they  would  look 
upon  it  as  one  of  his  peculiarities  and  he  dreaded  their  dis 
belief.  He  did  not  dare  to  tell  it  to  the  Reverend  Calvin 
Choakumchild,  who  gave  him  a  great  many  very  nice  tracts, 
and  talked  to  him  a  good  deal  about  the  "  Holy  Ghost." 
He  did  not  dare  to  tell  it  to  Betsy,  his  nurse,  who  had 
frightened  him  often  with  hobgoblins  and  spectres.  So  he 
laid  away  his  little  secret  in  a  quiet  shelf  in  his  memory, 
just  as  her  toys  had  been  put  away  in  a  corner  of  the  great 
cupboard. 

But  Etty  grew  up  a  man  and  strong  and  well  proportioned. 
His  head  no  longer  seemed  to  him  so  large,  and  people  did 
not  laugh  at  him.  His  old  name  gave  place  to  Mr.  So-and- 
So.  But  when  he  would  get  weary,  his  head  would  ache 
as  it  did  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  the  doctors,  many  of 
whom  had  D.D.  written  to  their  name,  could  do  him  no 
good.  How  welcome,  then,  was  Grade's  ghost,  and  her 
cool,  soft  touch,  and  her  whispered  words. 

But  he  fell  into  wicked  courses  and  among  wicked  men. 


36  A  CHILD'S  GHOST  STORY 

And  when  his  head  would  ache,  as  it  often  did  from  dissi 
pation  and  excesses,  he  did  not  dare  to  invoke  in  such  com 
pany  Grade's  ghost.  So  he  fell  sick  and  grew  worse,  and 
at  last  the  doctors  gave  him  up. 

At  the  close  of  a  bright  spring  day  when  he  lay  tossing 
upon  his  bed,  she  came  and  placed  her  hand  upon  his 
head ;  the  dull  throbbing  and  feverish  heat  passed  away.  He 
heard  the  whispering  of  the  leaves  of  the  old  elm  again, 
and  the  birds  talking  to  each  other,  and  even  the  foolish 
talk  of  the  brook.  It  was  saying,  "He  is  coming."  And 
then  with  his  hand  holding  one  of  Grade's,  and  her  other 
upon  his  forehead,  he  floated  out  with  the  brook  toward  the 
distant,  distant  sea. 

Children,  have  you  ever  seen  "Grade's  ghost"? 


FACTS  CONCERNING  A   MEERSCHAUM1 

I  FIRST  saw  it  in  possession  of  my  bosom  friend  Puffer, 
on  his  return  from  the  Continent. 

I  was  a  hard-reading  lawyer's  clerk  then  on  a  small,  and 
—  as  I  thought  —  inadequate,  salary.  I  had  quite  a  talent 
in  the  legal  way  —  having  debated  successfully  at  old  Be- 
devillem's  Institute,  where  I  gained  my  astute  knowledge  of 
the  world,  since  a  classical  budding  of  the  young  idea  en 
ables  it  to  shoot  much  more  perfectly.  It  was  my  parents' 
intention  to  fit  me  for  the  bar  —  for  which  purpose  I  de 
voted  a  greater  part  of  my  time  to  hard  reading.  I  read 
Story  and  Scott,  Coke  and  Cooper,  Blackstone  and  Bulwer, 
and  a  great  many  other  eminent  jurists  and  novelists.  It 
will  be  perceived  that  I  endeavored  to  combine  the  practical  ' 
and  imaginative,  and  I  would  recommend  that  plan  to  other 
young  men  about  to  take  up  a  profession.  It  has  its  faults, 
however,  owing  to  perversity  of  the  youthful  student  to  dis 
play  the  lightest  on  the  surface,  and  although  he  may  yet 
hold  the  law  of  those  revered  jurists  fixed  in  his  memory, 
he  is  apt  to  apply  the  argument  of  the  novelist  thereon  — 
which,  though  ingenious  and  entertaining,  is,  I  believe,  not 
considered  authority. 

As  this  is  a  moral  episode,  I  may  be  pardoned  one  more 
egotistical  confession.  At  this,  and  in  fact  at  an  earlier 
period,  I  was  troubled  with  a  besetting  sin  of  imitation.  I 
was  continually  assuming  other  people's  habits,  and  adopt 
ing  other  people's  peculiarities.  As  another  of  my  proclivi 
ties  was  not  to  imitate  anything  good,  it  is  some  consolation 
to  reflect  that  most  of  my  faults  were  other  people's. 

Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  finding  Puffer  a  metaphy- 
1  Golden  Era,  September  9,  1860. 


38  FACTS  CONCERNING   A  MEERSCHAUM 

sician,  I  became  a  transcendentalist ;  or  that,  seeing  his 
meerschaum,  I  became  convinced  that  cigars  were  but 
half-measures  and  that  the  meerschaum  was  the  true  source 
of  inspiration  for  a  student  ?  Of  course  not.  I  coveted 
Puffer's  meerschaum ;  and  when  one  day  Puffer  said  to  me : 
"B.,  friend  of  my  soul,  that  meerschaum's  yours,"  I  was 
happy.  In  imitation  of  his  impulsive  foreign  style,  I  fell 
upon  his  neck  and  kissed  both  his  cheeks. 

It  was  a  most  delectable  instrument,  large  and  exqui 
sitely  formed  —  for  some  German  student  had  expended 
upon  it,  between  the  intervals  of  hard  study,  his  artistic 
skill  in  carving.  The  bowl  was  small  and  goblet-shaped, 
supported  by  a  round-limbed  caryatid  —  it  might  have  been 
an  Indian  girl  or  some  Cleopatrashy  female  —  tinct  with 
the  dusky  juices  of  the  herb.  I  did  not  remark  it  then  — 
but  it  was  none  of  your  new,  highly  polished,  waxen-sur 
faced  affairs,  with  a  superficial  parvenu  glitter  ;  but  old  and 
respectable,  stained  through  and  through  with  the  collected 
juices  of  half  a  century.  For  such  a  pipe  a  man  might  re 
nounce  his  religion  —  his  mistress ;  to  have  created  such,  he 
might  have  willingly  entailed  upon  his  children  shattered 
nerves,  lustreless  eyes,  and  clouded  intellects. 

When  I  took  the  green  shagreen  case  home,  I  met  Dolly, 
my  landlady's  daughter,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Between 
Dolly  and  myself  some  acquaintance  existed.  I  looked  upon 
Dolly  with  that  disinterested  feeling  which  metaphysical 
young  men  with  vivid  imaginations  usually  bestow  upon 
young  and  pretty  women.  I  had  no  doubt  that  Dolly,  who 
was  practical  and  red-lipped,  looked  up  at  me  from  her  every 
day  level  with  the  profound  respect  that  my  transcendental 
turn  of  mind,  superior  attainments,  and  indefinable  longings 
demanded.  But  I  did  not  want  Dolly  to  see  the  pipe.  I 
knew  that  in  her  practical  way  she  would  regard  it  simply 
in  the  sense  of  tobacco,  and  possibly  object  to  it.  So  when 
I  saw  her  small  gaiters  occupying  the  centre  of  a  periphery 


FACTS  CONCERNING  A  MEERSCHAUM  39 

of  lace  edging,  on  a  level  with  my  eyes,  I  concealed  the 
coveted  treasure  in  my  hosom,  and  reaching  my  room  locked 
the  door,  and  prepared  to  give  myself  up  to  metaphysics 
and  Puffer's  meerschaum. 

The  filling  and  lighting  of  a  pipe  is  an  operation  which 
should  exclude  all  indecorous  haste.  A  moment's  careless 
ness  or  trifling  on  the  part  of  the  smoker  —  a  hurried  or 
reckless  packing  of  the  weed  at  the  insertion  of  the  cherry 
stem  —  produces  asthmatic  laboring,  phthisis,  and  not  un- 
frequently  asphyxia  and  extinction  of  the  vital  spark.  The 
would-be  smoker  protracts  a  lingering,  wheezing  existence, 
and  his  pipe  at  last  goes  out.  I  filled  Puffer's  meerschaum 
with  the  genuine  Latakia  (manufactured  in  Connecticut) 
carefully  and  deliberately,  lit  it,  and  applied  my  lips  to  the 
amber  mouthpiece.  You,  0  tobacco-loving  reader,  know 
the  rapture  of  that  first  draught  —  the  strange,  indefinable 
thrill  which  pervades  your  very  being;  the  delicious  ab 
sorption  of  that  infinitesimal  drop  of  nicotina,  following  your 
veins  from  your  fingers'  ends  to  the  toes  of  your  boots. 
Talk  of  an  infant  at  the  breast ;  the  shipwrecked  mariner 
squeezing  the  wet  canvas  in  his  mouth;  the  Arabia  Petraean 
traveler  transported  to  Arabia  Felix  at  a  well  —  anything  in 
the  way  of  a  first  draught,  and  they  're  but  weak  compari 
sons.  I  drew  a  rocking-chair  toward  the  window,  threw 
myself  in  it  at  the  national  position,  contemplated  the  toes 
of  my  slippers,  and  smoked  Puffer's  meerschaum. 

It  wanted  but  a  few  moments  of  twilight.  From  my  win 
dows  I  could  see  the  round  red  sun  modestly  pulling  a  fleecy 
blanket  over  him  as  he  sank  to  rest.  The  noises  of  the  city 
came  to  me  hushed  and  mellowed.  I  noticed  that  irregular 
rhythmical  beat  —  so  often  spoken  of  —  of  that  vast  human 
sea  which  welled  through  the  angular  channels  of  the  great 
metropolis  below  my  eyrie  on  Russian  Hill.  But  the  fog 
was  steadily  pulling  through  the  clefts  and  passes  of  the 
sand  hills,  encompassing  the  city  like  the  Assyrian  hosts,  and 


40       FACTS  CONCERNING  A  MEERSCHAUM 

nestling  its  white  face  in  the  green  marshes.  So  it  crept 
in  and  around,  until  it  fell  softly  upon  the  house-top  and 
drifted  like  long  pennons  across  the  street,  and  through  my 
open  window  it  stole  quietly,  filling  the  atmosphere  with  its 
moist  presence,  and  shutting  out  the  material  and  real  in 
its  thin  and  unsubstantial  vapidity.  Its  moist  salt  breath 
fanned  my  cheek  and  forehead  like  the  wing  of  some  great 
sea-bird.  It  flowed  through  my  chamber  and  shut  out  the 
distant  objects  already  indistinct,  and  sat  upon  my  heart  like 
some  huge  incubus.  I  smoked  steadily  but  laboriously,  and 
the  rising  smoke-wreaths  seemed  to  glide  and  mingle  with 
the  fog  until  the  only  discernible  object  was  the  bowl  of  my 
pipe,  rendered  a  luminous  lurid  spot,  like  the  setting  sun  in 
the  bank  of  fog.  Then  a  great  quiet  fell  upon  me. 

With  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  red  light  I  thought  of  the 
strange  and  fabulous  origin  of  the  "  meerschaum. "  I  pic 
tured  to  myself  bleak  cliffs,  whereon  the  North  Sea  lashed 
in  fury,  sending  its  spume  in  viscid  flakes  on  the  clayey 
bank,  to  be  collected  by  mermaids  and  sirens,  and  fashioned 
into  fantastic  bowls.  I  thought  of  the  Narcotic  Vegetable 
in  the  home  it  loved  best,  and  a  vision  of  tropical  beauty 
glimmered  through  the  fog  —  of  black  and  oily  figures  toil 
ing  beneath  a  vertical  sun,  and  carefully  loosening  the  soil 
about  the  roots  of  the  broad-leaved  plant,  letting  them  ab 
sorb  the  intoxicating  influence  of  the  dreamy  but  luxurious 
atmosphere.  And  thus  thinking,  I  heard  a  rustle  and  It 
stood  before  me ! 

What,  even  now,  in  the  calmness  and  quiet  of  this  little 
room,  I  cannot  —  dare  not  say  !  What  it  was  that  rose  up 
out  of  that  straw-colored  vapor,  floated  mistily  before  me, 
and  gradually  resolved  itself  from  cloudy  chaos  to  palpable 
and  awful  outline,  I  never  knew.  Whence  It  came,  with 
those  large  scarlet  lips  and  rounded  limbs,  what  man  can 
tell!  Beautiful  It  was — but  with  a  beauty  not  of  this 
world  or  age  —  a  beauty  that  might  have  come  to  the  lotus- 


FACTS  CONCERNING  A  MEERSCHAUM  41 

intoxicated  fancy  of  an  Egyptian  sculptor,  and  grown  into 
eternal  marble  with  all  its  undulating  lines,  its  voluptuous 
curves,  its  heaving  bosom,  its  braided  black  hair,  and  pout 
ing  lips.  An  awful  and  suggestive  magnificence,  that  might 
have  entered  the  hasheesh  dreams  of  Mahommedan  devotee 

—  but  not  the  heaven-sent  vision  of  Christian  neophyte. 
Not  even  that  classical  beauty,  modeled  by  Cytherea  and 
baptized  in  the  JEgean  —  low-browed  and  perpendicular- 
nosed.     Not  even  like  Dolly  —  amber-eyed,    scarlet-dyed, 
with  electrical  hair  like  thin-spun  glass.     None  of  these  — 
but  yet  glorious  —  entrancing  —  magnificent  and  awful ! 

It  crept  toward  me  and  coiled  up  at  my  feet.  Half- 
veiled,  in  some  strange,  fleecy  garment  that  shifted  and 
waved  as  It  moved,  and,  stirred  by  invisible  air  currents, 
seemed  to  wreathe  and  writhe  about  It,  even  as  smoke  — 
through  which  the  polished  mahogany  of  Its  inner  surface 
seemed  to  glisten  and  glide  duskily  like  a  serpent's  skin  — 
always  graceful  and  charming,  even  in  its  ophimorpheous 
outline  —  I  saw  It  lean  Its  head  upon  Its  hand  and  turn 
Its  awful  glittering  eyes  on  mine.  I  tried  to  rise,  but  could 
not.  I  tried  to  turn  my  eyes  away,  but  was  fascinated  like 
a  bird  in  the  serpent's  toils.  But  it  was  not  the  relentless, 
unwinking  glitter  of  the  rattlesnake,  although  I  felt  all 
the  dreaded  entrancement  of  its  gaze.  Its  eyes  were  softened 
and  humid  as  It  looked  at  mine,  and  bright  with  ineffable 
longing.  Again  I  tried  to  move,  but  my  limbs  were  torpid. 
I  tried  to  speak,  my  lips  were  powerless.  I  could  only  look 

—  my  faculties  found  expression  in  that   one  sense,  until 
the  weary  lids  sank  over  and  veiled  the  other  lustrous  orbs 
from  my  benumbing  consciousness,  and  slowly,  quietly,  I  fell 
asleep. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  bright  moonlight.  There  were  the 
long  parallelograms  of  lights  below  my  window,  and  above 
the  twinkling  city,  the  firmament,  starred  and  resplendent. 
I  rubbed  my  eyes.  I  was  cold,  nervous,  and  trembling. 


42  FACTS   CONCERNING  A  MEERSCHAUM 

There  was  a  bitter  taste  in  my  mouth  —  the  room  seemed 
close  —  the  air  heavy  with  tobacco  smoke.  Puffer's  meer 
schaum  lay  beside  me  on  the  floor.  I  picked  it  up  and 
was  about  to  return  it  to  its  case,  when  my  eye  caught  and 
became  riveted  to  the  carved  bowl.  It  was  the  odd  brown- 
tinged  caryatid  which  seemed  to  possess  this  fascination  and 
which  recalled  something  of  my  past  experience. 

You,  0  reader,  who  have  trespassed  upon  some  forbid 
den  ground,  who  have  indulged  in  some  prohibited  vice  — 
you  can  recall  how  much  easier  becomes  the  descent,  after  the 
first  downward  step,  than  to  retrace  your  footfalls  to  the 
dreadful  verge.  Let  me  then  hurry  over  the  feverish  impa 
tience  with  which  I  reviewed  my  impressions  of  that  awful 
night  and  the  gradual  absorption  of  my  faculties  in  the  repeti 
tion  of  that  first  excess.  How  often,  after  a  visit  from  that 
awful  presence,  restless  and  tossing  upon  my  couch,  feverish, 
with  parched  tongue  and  that  bitter  burning  taste  yet  linger 
ing  on  my  palate,  have  I  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  Its 
awful  fascinations.  How  often  has  this  been,  only  to  rise 
again  and  invoke  Its  soothing,  tranquillizing,  stupefying 
presence  from  out  of  Its  misty  habitation.  How  this  record 
has  been  told  over  in  shattered  nerves  and  trembling  limbs, 
clouded  intellect  and  vision,  and  remorseful  consciousness, 
perhaps  none  but  myself  can  know.  One  other  perhaps  — 
Dolly! 

She  eyed  me  narrowly.  She  often  spoke  of  my  failing 
health  and  jaded  looks.  I  sometimes  fancied  she  had 
detected  the  secret,  with  the  insight  peculiar  to  practical 
young  women.  Who  discovers  the  skeleton  in  your  friend's 
closet,  gentle  reader  ?  Always  a  Dolly !  You  go  about, 
stumbling  hither  and  thither,  in  your  masculine  knowledge 
of  men  and  things,  opening  musty  bookcases,  and  conning 
over  black  letter,  and  looking  into  street  corners  for  the 
old  skeleton.  Dolly,  long  ago,  has  gone  into  your  friend's 
room,  and  looked  into  the  closet  at  his  bedside  —  which  was 


FACTS  CONCERNING  A  MEERSCHAUM  43 

always  open  —  and  —  seen  it.  I  began  to  fear  that  Dolly 
knew  It  —  and  had  seen  It,  too. 

I  had  retired  one  night  wearily  to  my  room,  and  took 
from  my  closet  the  green  shagreen  case.  I  once  more 
filled  its  bowl,  but  in  my  feverish  anxiety  to  invoke  Its 
now  familiar  presence,  I  omitted  the  precautionary  rule 
I  laid  down  at  the  beginning  of  these  pages,  of  clearing 
its  concave  alembic.  It  answered  but  feebly  to  my  in 
spiring  breath.  It  seemed  clogged  and  sullen.  I  applied 
my  pen-knife  and  again  resumed  my  seat.  Then  slowly,  as 
befitted  Its  awful  advent  —  out  of  the  ascending  smoke- 
wreaths  It  grew  in  all  Its  dim,  mysterious  glory.  Again 
It  crawled  toward  me  with  Its  burning  eyes.  Again  It 
coiled  up  at  my  feet  and  leaned  Its  braided  musky  locks 
upon  Its  hand  and  took  my  palm  within  Its  own.  Again 
I  felt  the  strange,  indefinable  thrill  possess  me  as  I  gazed 
into  Its  lambent  eyes.  But  I  strove  to  shake  off  the  familiar 
torpor,  when,  as  if  divining  my  intent,  It  seemed  to  raise  — 
great  heaven  !  —  to  a  level  with  my  breast.  It  approached 
me  with  liquid,  loving  eyes,  and  big,  pouting,  scarlet  lips  — 
Its  mephitic  breath  was  upon  my  cheek,  Its  dewy  and  vel 
vety  lips  touched  my  forehead.  I  was  fainting,  when  — 
fizz  —  bang !  — 

There  had  been  a  tremendous  explosion  somewhere.  I 
picked  myself  from  the  floor  amid  the  scattered  fragments  of 
Puffer's  Meerschaum.  The  room  was  filled  with  smoke  to 
suffocation  —  but  it  was  not  tobacco.  It  smelt  of  gun 
powder.  The  door  was  open  and  somebody  was  giggling  in 
the  hall.  It  was  that  practical  young  woman  —  Dolly !  — 
and  she  had  packed  half  an  ounce  of  Dupont's  in  the  con 
cavity  of  Puffer's  meerschaum. 

In  consideration  that  I  gained  ten  pounds  one  month 
afterward,  I  forgave  Dolly. 

My  health  improved  to  such  an  extent  that  I  afterward 
married  her. 


MY  OTHEKSELF1 

A    GERMAN-SILVER   NOVEL 

THE  exercise  of  apperception  gives  a  distinctiveness  to 
idiocracy,  which  is,  however,  subjective  to  the  limits  of  ME, 
Thus :  If  I  consider  myself  individually  as  an  individual,  I 
segregate  my  personality  from  humanity,  which  being  ob 
jective  to  my  individuality  as  an  individual,  is  necessarily 
idiosyncratic. 

I  consider  the  above  as  a  very  neat  exposition  of  my  con 
dition.  I  can't  say  that  it  is  entirely  original.  I  stole 
some  of  the  ideas  from  Puffer  (he  that  gave  me  the  meer 
schaum  I  told  you  about  the  other  day).  The  lucid  style 
he  acquired  by  reading  Leibnitz  and  other  dreamy  Teutons. 
Puffer — although  I  say  it  who  am  his  friend  —  is  in  point 
of  fact  immense. 

When  he  told  me  that  horrid  story  about  the  German 
student  who  saw  a  duplicate  of  himself  walk  home  one 
night,  and  never  dared  to  enter  his  house  a  fortnight  after 
ward,  — which  I  dare  say  you  have  heard  before,  —  I  was 
sorely  troubled.  The  fact  of  it  is,  Puffer  has  such  an 
agreeable  way  of  telling  such  dreadful  things,  in  a  muffled 
voice  as  he  goes  away  at  night  after  a  visit  to  my  room,  that 
he  leaves  a  large  stock  of  material  on  hand  for  nightmares, 
horrid  dreams,  and  such  things.  And  then,  I  had  some  ex 
perience  of  my  own  on  the  subject  I  speak  of  that  I  did 
not  want  to  tell  him. 

So  I  thought  of  telling  you,  and  to  give  it  due  solemnity 
I  constructed  that  paragraph  I  called  your  attention  to.  If 
i  Golden  Era,  September  30,  1860. 


MY  OTHERSELF  45 

you  have  no  taste  for  metaphysics  and  would  n't  mind  a 
little  sentiment  instead,  we  '11  drop  Leibnitz  and  Puffer  for 
a  while. 

My  acquaintances,  generally,  look  upon  me  as  a  mild 
dyspeptic,  governed  according  to  the  philosophy  of  Henry 
Buckle  by  bodily  sympathies ;  and  rather  a  quiet,  ladylike 
young  man.  Just  so.  But  I  have  another  self  they  know 
nothing  about  —  a  brilliant  healthy  fellow,  with  huge  lungs  ; 
a  little  given  to  romance  and  enthusiasm,  who  requires  all 
my  care  and  attention  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief.  It  was 
my  otherself,  who,  when  I  received  castigation  at  an  early 
age,  ran  away  from  home  and  immediately  found  a  Desert 
Island  where  he  lived  afterward  very  happily  with  his  man 
Friday.  I  remained  with  my  aunt  Jemima  and  got  more 
lickings.  It  was  O.  S.  who  half  killed  the  tyrannical  old 
schoolmaster,  while  /  sat  quietly  by  and  conjugated  the 
verbs,  to  be,  to  do,  and  to  suffer.  It  was  0.  S.  who  bearded 
old  Fantadling  and  ran  away  with  Mary  Fantadling,  while  /, 
years  afterward,  saw  her  married  to  some  old  muff"  and 
danced  at  her  wedding.  Do  you  think  that  such  a  brilliant 
high-souled  fellow  as  my  otherself  would  have  stood  by 
and  allowed  such  a  heinous  sacrifice  of  Mary,  whom  I  loved  ? 
No,  sir.  Never !  0.  S.  was  self-sacrificing,  too,  on  occasion. 
When  I  had  oranges  sent  to  me  at  school  my  otherself 
crept  up  to  the  dormitory  and  gave  them  to  poor  Dick  who 
was  ill  with  the  fever.  I  did  n't.  Greedy  little  glutton  that 
I  was,  I  gorged  myself  with  them.  I  remember  somebody 
was  sick  afterward.  It  must  have  been  me.  It  was  my 
otherself  who  made  that  cutting  and  witty  retort  when  J.  B. 
expressed  his  opinion  that  I  was  a  Muggins.  I  only  said, 
"  You  're  another,"  or  words  to  that  effect.  In  short,  it  was 
my  otherself  who  was  always  witty,  grand,  noble,  chival 
rous,  self-sacrificing,  magnanimous,  and  successful.  Not  me. 

If  a  fellow  had  another  self,  ought  he  to  be  contented 
with  one  wife  ?  Don't  flatter  yourself  that  your  question 


46  MY   OTHERSELF 

is  new  or  funny.  That 's  been  said  before.  But  you  will 
find  it  partly  answered  in  these  pages. 

Some  years  ago,  in  the  Atlantic  States,  my  chronic  weak 
ness  became  intensified  at  the  climatrical  period,  and  obliged 
me  to  seek  pure  oxygen,  and  gather  raw  iodine  at  the  sea 
side.  The  physician  who  percussed  my  chest  and  felt  my 
pulse,  looking  at  me  with  grave,  quiet  eyes  but  a  pleasant, 
assuring  smile,  told  me  to  forget  myself  as  much  as  possi 
ble  for  the  next  four  weeks,  and  parted  from  me  with  a 
quiet  shake  of  the  hand. 

I  went  to  the  seaside.  Where  ?  Oh,  I  >m  not  going  to 
tell  you.  You  have  been  there  very  likely  or  may  go,  and 
then  you  may  find  out  that  the  circumstances  I  tell  you  are 
exaggerated.  Enough  for  you  to  know  that  it  had  the 
usual  great  house,  with  the  smell  of  thousands  of  dead  and 
gone  dinners  flavoring  the  wide  walls  and  passages.  With 
piazzas  and  colonnade,  with  the  white  paint  so  cold  and 
ghastly  in  the  moonlight,  and  so  hot  in  the  sunlight,  and 
on  the  windward  side  beginning  to  grow  sere  and  yellow, 
and  fretted  of  mornings  with  little  saline  crystals  from  the 
sharp  salt  air.  There  were  the  half-dozen  pretty  girls  and 
numberless  nice  young  women,  whose  white  skirts  filled  the 
piazzas  and  the  parlor ;  who  sang  and  flirted  and  danced 
the  "  German,"  and  charged  as  a  Light  Brigade  of  "  Lan 
cers"  and  fluttered  away  with  their  colored  pennons  to 
carry  havoc  and  destruction  elsewhere.  There  was  the 
usual  little  routine  of  daily  enjoyments,  entered  into  with 
business  regularity ;  the  bath,  the  ride,  the  walk,  the  bowl 
ing-alley,  dinner,  hop.  How  dost  thou  like  the  picture  ? 

I  set  about  trying  to  forget  myself.  I  tried  not  to  think 
that  I  was  a  weak  invalid,  and  forgot  to  feel  my  pulse  the 
next  morning,  after  arrival.  I  interested  myself  secretly  in 
people.  Having  a  nice  little  skeleton  of  my  own  tucked 
away  in  room  No.  1199,  I  cultivated  a  taste  for  other  peo 
ple's.  I  knew  why  the  lovely  Miss  M did  not  take 


MY  OTHERSELF  47 

her  accustomed  ride  with  Washington  Jinks  the  other  day 
after  that  sun-burned  and  queer-looking  customer  arrived. 
I  knew  why  young  Whipper-Snapper  came  up  post-haste 
from  the  city,  and  why  poor  Miss  Whipper-Snapper's  eyes 
were  red  the  next  morning,  and  her  cruel  u  pa  "  "bundled 
her  off  to  the  city.  I  knew  why  the  fascinating  Miss 

J was  so  brilliant  and  light-hearted ;  and  what  she  was 

trying  to  drown  and  blot  out  forever  in  the  gay  whirl  of 
excitement.  And  that  wicked  thing  that  young  Kattler 
told  me  about  Miss  Fanny,  —  ah,  my  dear  madam,  your 
sex  are  not  the  only  beings  who  cauterize  reputation,  —  but 
I  'm  not  going  to  tell  you  that,  although  it  7s  infinitely  better 
than  anything  in  this  story.  Let  us  go  back  to  our  sheep, 
which  are  not  all  black,  thank  goodness  ! 

Well,  I  was  sitting  upon  the  piazza  with  one  foot  upon 
one  of  the  columns,  and  my  other  leg  over  the  balusters 
(bannisters  is  the  pronunciation  of  that  region),  when  the 
hotel  stage  drew  up  with  some  additional  visitors.  A  num 
ber  got  down,  but  one  of  them  alighted.  I  use  the  latter 
expression  as  imperfectly  conveying  the  manner  in  which 
she  fluttered  out  of  the  stage  as  you  have  seen  a  canary 
come  out  of  the  door  of  a  cage.  She  might  have  had  wings, 
but  they  were  flattened  down  under  a  gray  traveling-cloak. 
I  did  not  see  them,  but  as  she  passed  me,  her  brown  veil 
lifted,  and  I  saw  her  young  face.  There  !  —  I  'm  not  going 
to  describe  her.  If  you  should  ever  see  her  album,  you  '11 
find  it  done  very  prettily.  There  are  some  verses  in  the 
September  number  of  the  Young  Woman's  Magazine  of 
the  year  185-,  illustrative  of  her  perfections,  signed  "B." 
And  perhaps  you  might  not  think  her  pretty.  There  ?s  my 

young  friend  D ,  whose  taste  is  good,  differs  from  me, 

but  every  one  knows  that  he  raves  altogether  about  golden 
hair  since  that  unfortunate  affair  he  had  with  the  youngest 
Miss  Midas. 

Most  people  would  have  gone  to  the  office  register  and 


48  MY   OTHERSELF 

picked  out  her  name,  and  that  of  her  aunt,  who  was  with 
her.  That  was  altogether  too  practical ;  besides,  it  would 
have  involved  me  in  the  necessity  of  giving  it  in  full  in 
these  pages.  I  preferred  to  follow  her  upstairs  after  a  de 
cent  interval,  and  lounge  carelessly  along  the  passages. 
Presently  I  saw  the  gray  traveling-dress  kneeling  before  a 
large  trunk  in  front  of  an  open  door.  The  trunk  was  almost 
big  enough  to  hold  the  darling  herself.  As  I  passed  by  she 
looked  up.  There  have  been  one  or  two  pairs  of  eyes  that 
I  have  seen  in  my  life  that  have  magnetized  me  —  I  don't 
know  whether  hers  did  —  but  1 711  tell  you  what  I  did  do. 
I  walked  downstairs  and  out  of  the  hotel,  and  so  down  to  the 
beach,  and  found  myself  half  an  hour  afterward,  poking  my 
stick  into  the  sand,  making  little  round  holes  for  the  water 
to  fill  up,  without  knowing  what  I  was  doing.  To  this 
day,  I  never  knew  why  I  went  there.  When  I  returned 
to  the  hotel,  it  was  dinner-time.  I  passed  through  the  long 
passage.  The  door  was  shut,  but  there  was  the  trunk ;  it 
was  marked  "A.  D." 

What  could  "  A.  D."  stand  for  ?  A  Darling,  a  Dear,  a 
Duck  ?  It  certainly  was  pleasant  to  have  something  to  be 
curious  about ;  somebody  to  think  of  beside  one's  self.  I 
reflected  as  I  stood  at  the  glass  in  the  desperate  attempt  to 
torture  my  hair  after  the  fashion  of  young  Wobbles,  whose 
hirsute  ensemble  was  at  once  the  envy  and  ridicule  of  our 
artless  sex  —  who,  among  all  their  faults,  are  not  amenable 
to  vanity.  Oh,  no!  And  when  the  gong  sent  its  swelling 
reverberations  along  the  passage,  I  slammed  the  door  on  my 
old  skeleton  and  strode  away  to  dinner. 

I  sat  nearly  opposite  to  her.  I  caught  her  eyes  as  I  sat 
down,  and  upset  my  glass.  Consequently  I  did  n't  dare  to 
look  at  her  during  the  meal  but  twice;  once  at  soup,  and 
once  at  coffee.  I  thought  she  looked  conscious  and  embar 
rassed.  She  might  if  she  had  known  that  I  seasoned  my 
food  immediately  afterward  to  such  an  extent  that  the  first 


MY  OTHEBSELF  49 

mouthful  produced  poignant  anguish  and  tears.  But  I 
crucified  my  flesh  for  her  dear  sake.  I  wonder  does  she 
think  of  it  now  ? 

The  next  day,  I  obtained  the  cooperation  of  young 
Wobbles,  who  knew  everybody,  and  was  introduced  to  her 
on  the  piazza,  at  sunset.  I  had  my  little  weaknesses  then 

—  and  read  Byron,  Moore,  and  Bulwer's  early  works,  and 
had  some  slight  acquaintance  with  Alfred  Tennyson.     I 
called  her  attention  to  celestial  appearances,  keeping  my 
glance  fixed  on  her  large,  hazel  eyes.     There  was  a  wistful 
yearning  expression  in  them,  as  if  she  was  looking  for  some 
body  or  something,  or  trying  to  clothe  the  person  she  ad 
dressed  with  some  familiar  habit.     I  entered  into  verbal 
discourse,  still  looking  in  her  eyes,  and  carrying  on  a  con 
versation  in  their  supereloquent  language  —  somewhat  after 
this  style :  — 

"What  a  magnificent  sky."  (What  beautiful  eyes  you 
have.) 

"  Lovely."     (Do  you  really  think  so  ?) 
"That  rosy  flush   is   unapproachable."     (So  are  your 
cheeks.) 

"  Is  n't  it ! "     (You  make  me  blush.) 
"  May  I  offer  you  my  arm  ?  "     (She  is  lovely.) 
"Thank  you  ;  it  is  so  pleasant."     (He  is  nice.) 
We  turn  and  pass  the  other  promenaders  one  by  one, 
and  make  our  way  toward  the  beach.     We  look  out  on  the 
flashing  sea.     She  speaks  :  — 

"  I  like  the  sea.  It  is  about  the  only  genuine  thing 
here,  although  it  resembles  our  little  world  in  yonder  car 
avansary.  The  waves  come  rolling  in  and  dash  themselves 
upon  the  sand,  leaving  a  faint  trace,  as  we  do,  year  after 
year,  only  to  be  obliterated  by  those  that  follow." 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  with  deep  sarcasm,  "  and  those  great  ones, 
that  rush  in  periodically,  are  the  *  heavy  swells,'  and  these  " 

—  I  pick  up  a  water-worn  pebble  —  "are  the  hearts  that 
are  left  behind." 


50  MY   OTHERSELF 

(Do  I  suppose  that  you  imagine  this  conversation  gen 
uine  ?  Of  course  not.  You  know  it 's  only  a  clever  way 
we  romancists  have  of  ringing-in  a  pet  idea  by  putting  it 
in  the  mouth  of  irresponsible  parties.  Did  you  ever  hear 
girls  talk  as  they  do  in  books  ?  What  would  conversation 
be  if  carried  on  in  that  correct,  bloodless  way  ?  Where 
would  be  the  anxious  interrogating  eye,  the  eloquent  ges 
ture,  even  the  dear  little  misplaced  adjectives  and  bad 
punctuation  which  make  their  disjointed  chat,  and  their 
"  ands,"  the  soul  of  prattle  and  gossip?) 

We  were  out  about  an  hour  that  evening,  and  it  was  with 
great  difficulty  that  I  choked  back  a  premature  avowal  of 
love,  fidelity,  etc.,  etc.  I  was  remarkably  eloquent  and 
brilliant  —  at  least,  I  thought  I  saw  that  much  reflected  in 
her  eyes.  It  would  be  pleasant,  I  thought,  to  ramble  that 
way,  for  a  lifetime ;  oblivious  of  bread  and  butter  and  small 
children,  in  a  country  where  the  sun  was  perpetually  setting 
and  never  getting  up  upon  a  world  of  labor  and  reality,  and 
I  grew  quite  silent,  and  was  beginning  to  think  of  my  old 
skeleton,  when  I  looked  up  and  saw  her  looking  at  me.  It 
was  an  expression  of  distrust  and  disappointment,  that  sent 
an  odd  fear  flashing  over  me.  "  It  is  getting  chill,"  said 
she,  "let  us  go  back."  I  thought  the  air  had  changed 
marvelously,  for  I  felt  cold,  too. 

The  next  morning  when  I  saw  her,  I  fancied  that  she 
blushed  as  our  eyes  met.  I  thought,  too,  that  her  aunt 
eyed  me  sharply  over  her  spectacles  for  a  moment.  But 
that  day  I  sedulously  cultivated  the  old  lady,  and  interested 
myself  in  her  in  my  old-fashioned,  ladylike  way,  so  differ 
ent  from  last  evening,  that  we  were  in  a  very  gossipy  con 
versation  in  the  parlor  when  A.  D.  entered  from  the  morn 
ing  bath.  She  looked  astonished,  as  well  she  might ;  she 
looked  lovely,  she  could  n't  help  that  either.  Aunt  Viney 
requested  me  to  repeat  that  amusing  little  anecdote  about 
Mrs.  M.  M. ,  and  added :  "  My  dear,  this  gentleman  knows 


MY   OTHEESELF  51 

all  about  those  stuck-up  Pigswells,  and  says  their  father  was 
only  a  carpenter.  You  know  what  I  told  you  about  such  peo 
ple.  Put  a  beggar  on  horseback  "  —  and  the  dear  old  thing 
absolutely  rolled  the  sweet  morsel  under  her  tongue  as  she 
left  the  room.  I  thought  another  shade  was  coming  over  A. 
D.  's  face,  but  I  mounted  my  hippogriff,  and  taking  her  up 
behind  me,  soon  soared  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  thou 
sand  and  one  dinners,  into  the  realms  of  poetry  and  fancy. 

And  so  days  passed  ;-but  why  should  I  repeat  any  of  those 
variations  of  the  old  duet  of  Love  and  Youth  ?  From  un 
disguised  pleasure  at  meeting  each  other,  we  at  last  merged 
into  that  hopeless  stage  when  every  moment  out  of  each 
other's  society  was  a  blank  of  years ;  when  chance  meetings 
and  even  slight  formalities  seemed  to  have  a  guilty  con 
sciousness.  And  yet  I  never  spoke  of  love.  I  knew  that 
she  was  rich  and  an  orphan,  and  that  she  was  talked  of  as 
the  heiress  of  her  aunt,  whom,  Wobbles  told  me,  adored  her 
next  to  the  thousands  which  rumor  said  she  would  leave  her 
when  she  died.  I  never  thought  of  marriage.  I  was  con 
tent  with  the  blissful  and  artificial  present.  And  I  dreaded 
the  old  lady's  resentment  had  she  imagined  my  thought. 
So  I  regularly  humored  her,  and  she,  recognizing  my  easy, 
meretricious  qualities,  was  civil  and  social. 

I  had  been  thinking  of  this  in  conjunction  with  the  old 
skeleton  I  carried  up  there,  and  had  taken  my  seat  upon  the 
piazza  as  I  did  once  before,  when  the  afternoon  stage  drew 
up  at  the  door.  There  was  a  figure  that  lightly  leaped 
down  and  tripped  up  the  steps,  as  somebody  did  I  told  you 
of.  But  what  a  resemblance  in  figure,  in  height,  in  looks, 
in  action,  to  —  to  —  to  —  myself!  There  was  the  outline 
of  my  thin,  colorless  face,  but  rounder,  and  lit  with  the  flush 
of  youth  and  vigor.  The  listless,  lounging  way  I  had  ac 
quired,  and  I  must  confess,  cultivated,  in  the  stranger  was 
changed  to  the  active  buoyancy  of  youth  and  energy.  A 
fellow  to  do,  and  dare ;  to  live  in  earnest  —  I  thought  as 


52  MY  OTHERSELF 

I  looked  at  him  in  undisguised  admiration.  Why  did  n't 
the  thought  that  months  afterward  slowly  shaped  itself 
in  my  brain,  and  at  last  sprang  forth  like  the  Athenian 
Pallas,  full  grown  and  armed  against  me,  — oh,  why  didn't 
it  strike  me  then  ?  Why  did  n't  I  know,  blind  fool  that 
I  was,  that  this  was  the  companion  of  my  bygone  life ; 
the  child,  the  boy,  the  man  —  my  otherself?  Why? — • 
well,  because  it  would  have  spoiled  my  story,  you  see ! 

I  called  young  Wobbles's  attention  to  him,  and  I  think 
Wobbles  objected  to  him  as  being  too  "  intense."  But  I 
think  no  one  but  myself  noticed  the  strange  resemblance 
that  he  bore  to  me.  When  I  went  upstairs  he  was  standing 
on  the  piazza,  where  we  stood,  you  remember,  his  quick  eye 
turned  toward  the  sea,  and  his  fresh,  sun-burned  face  a  little 
thrown  back,  his  lips  partly  open,  chest  dilated,  and  shoulders 
squared  as  if  recognizing  a  familiar  presence  in  the  rushing 
breath  of  the  mighty  sea.  What  was  the  cause  of  that 
miserable  sinking  of  the  heart  that  came  over  me  then? 
Why  did  I  get  myself  up,  for  the  regular  "  feed  "  that  after 
noon,  listlessly  and  carelessly  ?  Looking  in  the  glass  I  saw 
the  grinning  head  of  that  old  skeleton  peeping  over  my 
shoulder. 

A.  D.  looked  beautiful  that  day  at  dinner.  In  the  full 
ness  of  her  young  life,  and  the  unconscious  eloquence  of  her 
girlish  nature,  she  gave  me  a  look  that  made  my  pulse  jump 
and  the  bones  of  the  old  skeleton  upstairs  rattle.  I  was 
yet  watching  her  face,  when  I  noticed  the  color  drop  out  of 
her  cheek  and  her  eyes  assume  a  fixed  and  concentrated 
look,  and  something  swell  and  rise  in  her  fair  young  throat. 
I  looked  around  and  saw  —  my  otherself.  He  had  sat 
down  near  me,  and  was  looking  and  evidently  admiring 
her.  I  saw  her  eyes  turn  from  his  face  to  mine  with  that 
curious,  wistful  look  I  had  before  noticed.  Then  they  sank 
in  maidenly  confusion  on  her  plate  and  she  became  absorbed 
in  chicken.  I  picked,  little  by  little,  like  that  young  woman 


MY  OTHEKSELF  53 

in  the  Arabian  Nights,  who  did  n't  like  to  spoil  her  appetite 
for  dead  bodies,  and  thought  of  my  skeleton.  My  otherself 
had  a  vulgar,  healthy  appetite.  You  think  that  I  have  got 
jealous  of  the  stranger  who  fancied  my  girl, — oh,  astute 
reader  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Jealousy  is  too  active  a  passion 
for  my  temperament.  But  that  night,  as  I  gloomily  walked 
on  the  beach,  I  think  that  if  Wobbles  had  rushed  up  to  me 
and  told  me  that  somebody  had  been  carried  out  in  the  un 
dertow,  I  should  have  composed  a  handsome  obituary  or 
elegiac  verses  on  that  somebody  for  the  country  paper,  or 
done  something  almost  as  heartless  and  gentlemanly. 

To  show  that  I  had  no  ill  will —  I  found  out  from  Wobbles 
that  my  otherselfs  name  was  Reginald  de  Courcy  Altamont, 
and  solicited  and  obtained  an  introduction,  and  overpow 
ered  him  with  civility.  I  even  procured  him  an  introduc 
tion  to  my  A.  D.,  whom  he  frankly  confessed  he  admired. 
Would  you  believe  that  that  same  ridiculous  scene  on  the 
piazza  was  repeated,  only  by  a  different  and  much  more  nat 
ural  performer,  who  took  the  part  of  the  lover,  vice  myself. 
I  don't  know  that  it  did,  but  I  preferred  to  think  so ;  and 
have  reasons  to  believe  it  now.  But  let  me,  as  I  draw 
nearer  the  climax,  give  you  an  episode. 

It  was  a  warm  morning.  People  drooped  about  in  white 
linen  and  Marseilles.  The  sands  had  a  dreadful,  unwinking 
glare,  and  the  sea  beyond  was  quite  calm  and  glittered  like 
green  glass.  There  was  no  rustle  of  the  tasselated  corn, 
filing  away  inland  to  the  distant  hills ;  it  bent  lower  in  the 
yellow  heat.  The  trees  were  dusty  and  parched.  There 
was  one  quiet,  cool  nook  that  I  remembered ;  thither  I  bent 
my  steps.  I  entered  the  principal  passage  and  followed  it 
until  it  ended  near  the  eastern  gable  and  was  crossed  by  a 
reentering  angle,  flanked  by  a  sash-door  opening  upon  the 
balcony.  There  sat  A.  D.  reading.  Her  little  slippered 
feet  were  upon  an  embroidered  worsted  "  cricket,"  which 
she  pushed  toward  me  with  a  look  and  a  smile.  I  sat  down 


54  MY   OTHERSELF 

at  her  feet  and  took  up  the  book  which  she  had  laid  down 
carelessly,  and  opened  it.  It  was  selections  from  Tennyson. 
Could  it  be  mine  ?  I  look  at  the  fly-leaf.  In  bold  char 
acters  I  behold,  "  R.  de  Courcy  Altamont."  Oh,  I  see.  I 
look  at  her — she  meets  my  gaze  fearlessly.  "Mr.  Alta 
mont  lent  it  to  me.  I  believe  you  have  a  copy.  You  said 
you  admired  Tennyson  —  and  I  thought "  —  the  artful  little 
minx  drops  her  eyes.  Oh,  the  delicious  and  exquisite  un 
certainty  of  that  moment!  I  opened  the  book  carelessly 
and  read  aloud :  — 

"Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 
Till  the  maiden  yields." 

The  book  drops.  She  is  looking  out  of  the  sash-door,  to 
ward  the  distant  sea.  I  wonder  whether  she  is  looking  for 
anybody's  ship ! 

"  How  very  warm  it  is !  " 

"  Very ! » 

A  long  pause — I  watch  a  fly  buzzing  on  the  piazza  and 
a  grim  old  spider  waiting  inside  of  an  extempore  web  which 
he  has  just  built  at  the  cornice.  He  knows  the  fly  will 
come.  It's  only  a  question  of  time.  She  taps  her  little 
foot  and  turns  an  emerald  ring  upside  down  on  her  little 
finger.  I  break  silence,  still  watching  the  fly. 

"  This  life  is  so  very  artificial.  I  should  like  to  have  an 
island  somewhere  in  the  tropics  —  say  where  Paul  and  Vir 
ginia  lived  —  and  forget  the  frivolities  of  society,  and  live 
alone  with  her  whom  I  should  choose  to  make  my  life  ear 
nest  and  happy  ?  "  You  perceive  I  end  this  highly  original 
remark  with  a  note  of  interrogation,  although  there  was 
literally  no  question  asked  —  that  was  my  artful  tone  of 
voice ! 

She  turns  her  head  and  looks  down  at  me. 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  do  anything  of  the  kind ! " 


MY   OTHEKSELF  55 

In  real  astonishment  I  ask,  "  Why  ?  " 

"It  would  be  too  much  trouble,  and  —  don't  get  angry 
now  —  you  don't  mean  what  you  say.  People  who  have 
hearts  that  are  so  simple  and  artless,  are  not  always  running 
to  desert  islands  to  enjoy  their  own  immaculate  purity  un 
tainted.  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  is  much  pleasanter 
to  try  and  make  ourselves  happy  here  and  to  familiarize, 
and  accept  one  another  from  our  own  standard,  than  to  wish 
to  be  much  worthier,  wiser,  or  better  than  they.  If  I  had  a 
h-h-husband  "  —  the  word  seemed  to  stick  in  her  dear  little 
throat  —  "I  should  want  him  to  believe  well  of  other  people, 
or  I  hardly  think  he  could  always  think  well  of  me.  I 
think  an  earnest,  simple  believer  like  —  ah,  Mr.  Altamont  ! 
I  have  been  reading  your  favorite  author  "  (the  false,  fickle 
thing  ! )  "  I  do  so  admire  Tennyson." 

Yes,  there  stood  my  otherself,  bowing  pleasantly  to  me 
and  seating  himself  on  a  camp-stool  he  had  brought  with 
him!  You  see  the  whole  thing  had  been  evidently  ar 
ranged! —  they  had  met  before. 

I  bowed  and  retired  —  I  did  n't  feel  well  and  thought  a 
walk  would  do  me  good.  I  looked  at  the  cornice  as  I  went 
out  —  the  poor  fly  was  struggling  in  the  meshes  of  the  web 
and  the  spider  was  sidling  down  toward  him.  I  smiled  in 
grim  sarcasm.  But  I  felt  rather  cut  for  all  that. 

The  time  of  my  return  to  the  city  was  rapidly  approach 
ing.  I  had  received  letters  from  my  employers,  informing 
me  that  they  would  expect  me  to  return  to  my  duties  about 
the  first  prox.,  and  that  they  hoped  I  was  better.  I  re 
ceived  another  from  my  Aunt  Jemima,  stating  that  she 
heard  that  my  health  was  improving,  and  that  I  looked  like 
another  man.  I  knew  the  dear  old  lady  was  too  straight 
forward  for  sarcasm,  but  you  may  guess  that  my  cheeks 
flushed  at  the  simple  sentence.  I  informed  A.  D.  carelessly 
of  my  intention,  and  of  course  looked  in  her  face  acci 
dentally  as  I  did  so.  She  looked  at  me  curiously,  as  if 


56  MY  OTHERSELF 

she  wanted  to  say  something.  But  I  did  n't  give  her  a 
chance. 

With  the  intention  of  doing  the  magnanimous,  I  called 
at  Altamont's  room.  The  young  man  was  pleasant  and 
hearty  —  but  I  think  I  inclined  to  Wobbler's  opinion  that 
he  was  "  intense."  He  held  me  by  the  hand  and  pressed 
it  warmly,  and  told  me  that  he  had  taken  a  great  fancy 
to  me  ever  since  he  had  first  seen  me.  "  There  is  something 
about  you,  old  boy,"  said  he,  "  that  reminds  me  of  some 
body  that  I  once  knew."  I  inquired  if  it  was  the  friend 
of  Toodles  that  he  had  reference  to.  "  You  're  as  wicked 
as  ever,"  said  he,  "  but  I  like  you  for  all  that  —  what  '11 
you  take  ?  "  I  took  brandy.  We  resolved  to  make  a  night 
of  it.  We  accordingly  made  a  night  of  it  that  lasted  till 
late  the  next  day.  He  informed  me  of  all  his  past  history, 
his  present,  and  his  plans  for  the  future,  and  — 

I  've  been  thinking  how  I  should  tell  it  —  I  want  to  make 
the  climax  effective  without  making  myself  ridiculous  — 
but  I  may  as  well  tell  the  truth  in  plain  words.  Well,  — 
would  you  believe  it,  —  this  chivalrous,  earnest,  romantic, 
healthy  young  man  —  my  otherself,  actually  asked  me  to 
assist  him  in  running  off  with  A.  D.  Told  me  that  she 
was  willing  (the  deceitful,  bold  thing!)  —  that  she  loved 
him,  that  it  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight,  and  a  great  deal 
more  nonsense  that  was  perfectly  sickening  and  driveling. 
(What  fools  people  do  make  of  themselves  on  such  occa 
sions.)  I  was  disgusted  and  so  left  him. 

Of  course  I  took  things  philosophically.  When  I  left 

the House,  I  didn't  take  a  walk  around  the  piazza, 

nor  loiter  along  the  passage  near  the  door  of  a  certain  room. 
I  got  into  the  stage  and  took  Tennyson  from  my  pocket  and 
read,  — 

"  Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me." 


MY  OTHEKSELF  57 

That  was  positively  all  I  did  in  the  sentimental  way.  When 
I  reached  the  city  I  met  my  kind  physician:  "You  have 
got  a  little  more  iron  in  your  blood,  my  boy  [my  heart  he 
might  have  said],  and  your  flesh  is  firmer  [he  grasps  my 
hand]  —  what  have  you  been  doing  for  the  last  four 
weeks?" 

"  I  took  your  advice,  Doctor,  and  l  forgot  myself.'  r' 
It  was  not  my  only  contact  with  this  otherself,  although 
I  have  endeavored  to  relate  in  these  pages  an  episode  of  my 
summer  life ;  this  otherself  has  come  to  me  in  bleaker  autumn 
days  with  the  dead  leaves  and  sighing  winds.  I  know  that 
my  otherself  is  happy ;  that  he  is  known  and  loved  and  his 
name  "spoken  of  men"  and  reverenced.  I  am  looking  for 
ward  to  a  time  when  myself  and  this  otherself  shall  be  one 
and  inseparable.  I  do  not  deem  it  an  idiosyncracy ;  for  you, 
oh,  indulgent  reader,  looking  upon  these  pages  with  the 
sympathies  of  apperception,  may  have  felt  one  touch  of 
companionship  with  me.  I  see  and  recognize  your  other- 
selves — as  I  did  that  of  a  dear  young  friend  I  lately  lost. 
I  knew  but  his  objective  self,  seamed,  scarred,  worried,  and 
furrowed  in  the  battle  of  life.  But  bending  over  his  cold 
white  face  a  year  ago,  I  saw,  in  the  relaxed  lineaments  and 
pleasant  air,  the  older  face  of  his  otherself  looking  out  to 
mine,  and  upward ! 


"HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER"! 

A    STORY    OP    A    SACRIFICE 

AN  elegant  and  philosophical  writer  says :  "  Man's  life 
is  only  a  journey  from  one  fond  woman's  breast  to  another." 
It  was  probably  the  object  of  the  author  to  refer  particu 
larly  to  the  mother  and  wife.  As  the  number  of  stopping- 
places  is  not  limited,  however,  I  choose  to  accept  the  most 
catholic  interpretation.  I  believe  that  what  the  world  usually 
calls  "  inconstancy "  is  only  the  effort  of  nature  to  progress 
toward  perfect  affinities.  If  man  in  his  journey  of  life  stops 
at  a  good  many  ports,  it  stands  to  reason  that  he  will  acquire 
a  much  better  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  will  eventually 
"  lay  up  "  in  the  best  haven.  Let  me  give  you  a  modified 
illustration  of  my  idea.  I  have  a  friend  who  has  been  sub 
jected  to  a  theory  of  purely  physical  progression.  His  first 
and  earliest  affection  was  for  Curls.  He  became  acquainted 
at  the  age  of  ten  years  with  a  set  of  twelve,  —  large  ones  at 
that.  This  capillary  attraction,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  was  not 
lasting.  A  Voice,  belonging  to  another  and  otherwise  plain 
young  woman,  next  occupied  the  reverberating  chambers  of 
his  heart.  It  was  not  a  fine  voice,  but  it  was  a  positive  one 
and  his  was  a  negative.  Now  you  see  Curls  had  a  negative 
voice,  and  of  course  two  negatives  hadn't  any  attraction. 
Hence  his  deflection.  Then  a  Bust  attracted  his  undivided 
attention.  It  was  followed  by  Eyes  and  Mouth,  which  by 
an  unusual  phenomenon  occurred  in  the  same  individual ; 
they  were  both  positive  and  my  friend's  own  eyes  and 
mouth  were  negatives.  Hence  his  new  variation.  He  came 
very  near  proposing  to  them,  but  was  providentially  saved 
i  Golden  Era,  October  14,  1860. 


HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER  59 

by  the  interposition  of  an  Ankle.  He  flirted  with  the  Ankle 
for  some  time,  but  an  ankle  not  being  a  regular  feature,  of 
course  it  was  n't  lasting.  Need  I  inform  the  reader  that  had 
he  met  the  positive  and  negative  peculiarities  combined  in 
one  person,  he  would  have  fallen  in  love  at  once  and  recog 
nized  his  affinity  ?  That  7s  what  he  was  looking  for.  Hence 
his  hesitation,  and  what  the  world  foolishly  calls  his  — 
"  inconstancy." 

I  merely  instance  this  "  physical "  illustration  as  being  the 
most  forcible  and  common.  Mental  and  moral  peculiarities 
are  met  in  the  same  way  and  are  much  more  difficult  to 
combine.  Of  course  there  are  some  exceptions  to  the  above 
theory.  Indistinctive  people  are  an  exception.  You  may 
take  a  stick  of  wood  and  saw  it  into  a  number  of  small  pieces 
and  you  shall  find  no  difficulty  in  fitting  any  of  the  pieces 
together.  But  take  another  stick  and  break  it  several  times, 
and  you  must  find  the  particular  adjunct  if  you  wish  to 
join  two  in  one.  Now  indistinctive  people  are  the  sawn 
blocks:  they  come  naturally  together.  The  broken  pieces 
are  men  and  women  of  strongly  marked  opposite  characters, 
with  negative  and  positive  dispositions,  fitting  each  other 
and  showing  that  in  the  normal  state  they  were  one  distinct 
creation.  Not  unfrequently  there  is  some  unnatural  match 
ing.  A  worthy  friend  of  mine,  with  a  smooth,  indistinctive 
surface,  married  one  of  the  broken  pieces ;  the  consequence 
was  obvious ;  attrition  has  worn  off  her  salient  features  and 
she  has  become  like  him.  But  when  two  broken  surfaces 
meet,  that  don't  fit  —  there  ?s  trouble  and  business  for  the 
lawyers  at  once. 

I  would  like  to  give  you  an  illustration  of  another  ex 
ception,  just  for  its  moral.  Every  story  should  have  a  moral 
or  develop  some  peculiar  idea,  —  but  how  often  do  we  ac 
cept  the  moral.  When  our  surgical  friend  strips  the  walls 
of  this  once  living  temple,  and  lays  bare  its  wonderful  in 
ternal  structure,  however  irreverent  the  act,  we  pardon  it 


60  HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER 

for  the  good  that  shall  accrue  to  man  thereby.  But  when 
the  novelist  with  his  little  scalpel  cuts  into  the  character  of 
his  opposite  neighbor,  or  his  dear  friend,  and  exhibits  their 
internal  organism,  or  shows  up  his  own  idiosyncracies,  we 
never  recognize  ourselves  therein.  That's  quite  another 
affair,  of  course. 

When  my  friend  Dick  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  he 
had  amassed  a  little  fortune.  He  had  flirted  a  good  deal  in 
his  time,  and  was  rather  a  wild  young  fellow.  But  under 
his  superficial  qualities  and  manly  exterior,  there  was  a  large, 
honest,  boy's  heart.  Whether  it  had  ever  been  trampled 
upon,  or  had  the  impression  of  some  woman's  small  foot 
sunk  in  it,  is  of  little  consequence.  But  I  do  not  think  his 
heart  was  that  kind  of  primitive  formation,  that  holds  the 
relics  of  bygone  days  in  its  cold  fossiliferous  stratum.  If 
Dick  had  ever  had  an  "  affair  de  coeur,"  he  had  forgotten  it. 
He  was  what  we  term  blase  ;  we  —  who  know  nothing 
about  it.  Dick  did  not  object  to  the  epithet  —  he  rather 
liked  it,  as  we  all  do  —  and  I  think  he  cultivated  an  en- 
nuied  air.  If  he  had  had  any  previous  erotic  experience,  it 
was  in  the  progressive  stages  I  told  you  of. 

At  his  boarding-house  he  chanced  occasionally  to  meet  a 
young  girl  who  seemed  to  possess  many  of  the  attributes  he 
had  admired  consecutively  in  others.  She  was  simple  and 
unsophisticated,  and  supported  herself  by  giving  music  les 
sons.  With  his  wholesale  admiration  of  the  sex,  Dick  be 
came  interested  in  her  after  a  fashion.  She  did  not  object 
to  his  attentions  —  Miss  Mary  was  flattered  and  pleased  with 
Dick.  And  Dick  did  not  exactly  love  her,  for  he  had  doubted 
the  existence  of  the  passion.  But  he  felt  it  was  time  to  get 
married.  He  was  getting  old.  Here  was  a  good  chance  for 
him  to  test  his  skeptical  theory  in  regard  to  love.  If  he 
really  believed  there  was  no  such  thing,  he  might  as  well 
marry  her  as  any  one.  She  would  undoubtedly  make  him 
a  good  wife.  And  she  was  poor,  and  that  was  the  strong 


HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER  61 

lever  that  stirred  the  romantic  foundation  of  Dick's  heart. 
He  could  give  her  a  position.  She  must  love  him  —  he 
could  give  her  happiness  !  He  could,  in  short,  make  a  — 
a  —  yes,  that  was  it,  a  —  sacrifice  ! 

They  were  married  quietly.  There  were  some  friends  of 
Dick's  present,  but  the  bride  was  an  orphan,  and  her  only 
relative,  a  younger  sister,  lived  in  a  distant  State.  He  took 
her  to  a  rich  and  luxurious  home.  He  felt  that  he  had  done 
the  correct  and  gentlemanly  thing  in  every  respect,  and  when 
he  led  her  into  the  softly  carpeted  parlor  of  their  fashion 
able  bower,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  placid  self-congratula 
tion.  The  foolish,  simple  bride  threw  her  arms  about  her 
husband's  neck,  and  said  to  him, — 

"  Oh,  Dick!  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  " 

Dick  was  touched  and  felt  an  imaginary  halo  suspend 
itself  over  his  Olympian  brow  ! 

There  were  no  transports  with  Dick.  The  honeymoon 
passed  quietly  and  evenly.  He  had  not  expected  to  be  ex 
travagantly  blissful  —  his  dream,  if  one  had  ever  fashioned 
and  shaped  his  inner  man  —  was  deceitful  and  he  knew  it. 
His  wife  was  all  to  him  that  he  had  sought,  it  seemed  — 
but  yet  the  possession  of  her  love  did  not  seem  fraught  with 
the  strange  fascination  that  he  had  often  conceived  in  his 
early  days.  There  was  something  wanting.  He  would 
never  let  her  know  it ;  oh,  no,  it  would  spoil  his  perfect 
sacrifice.  But  perhaps  it  was  this  consciousness  that  placed 
a  deeper  chasm  betwixt  his  wife's  affections  and  his  own. 
He  felt  he  had  another's  happiness  in  his  keeping  and  he 
resolved  to  guard  it  as  preciously  as  his  own.  This  state 
of  affairs,  as  you  may  readily  imagine,  though  very  romantic, 
put  him  upon  a  forced  and  unnatural  behavior,  which  added 
another  million  of  miles  to  that  awful  chasm.  And  Dick 
sometimes  found  himself  sitting  opposite  to  her,  in  their 
comfortable  parlor,  and  wondering  if  that  strange  woman 
was  his  wife.  There  was  the  contour  of  the  face  that  had 


62  HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER 

haunted  his  boyish  visions;  there  was  the  same  soft  voice 
and  winning  accent —  and  yet  why  was  n't  he  happier  ?  why 
was  n't  he  grateful  ?  what  was  the  meaning  of  that  awful 
barrier  that  lay  between  them  ?  Why  was  he  doing  the 
Spartan  business,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?  He  would 
get  up  at  such  times  and  go  over  to  the  neat  womanly  figure, 
and  gaze  into  her  eyes  and  kiss  her  red  lips  and  say,  "  Are 
you  happy,  my  dear?"  and  then  she  would  look  back  an 
answer,  and  would  say,  "Are  you  not,  Dick?"  Dick 
would  say  emphatically,  "  Certainly,  my  dear ! "  with  a 
great  deal  of  unnecessary  decision. 

A  time  came  when  Dick's  wife  was  not  able  to  visit  much, 
and  kept  her  room  a  great  deal ;  and  Dick  learned  that  this 
young  sister  of  hers  would  visit  her,  and  that  for  certain 
reasons,  the  visit  would  be  very  opportune  ;  and  it  was  with 
that  strange  flutter  which  the  consciousness  of  a  coming 
event  occasions  in  the  breast  of  the  expectant  parent,  that 
Dick  was  sitting  by  himself  in  the  little  library,  before  the 
fire.  Her  chair  —  for  she  was  wont  to  bring  her  work  in 
and  sit  with  her  husband  while  he  read  —  was  standing  op 
posite  and  her  work-basket  was  still  upon  the  table.  He 
was  trying  to  analyze  the  strange  sensations  that  were  throng 
ing  upon*  him,  and  looking  forward  to  a  happier  state  of 
being,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  assist  his  re 
flections  by  smoking.  He  drew  out  his  cigar-case,  bit  off 
the  end  of  a  fragrant  Havana,  and  looked  around  for  a  bit 
of  paper  to  light  it.  His  eye  fell  on  his  wife's  basket. 
There  was  a  white  paper  sticking  out  of  a  chaotic  scramble 
of  various  colored  fragments.  He  took  it  up.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  letter.  He  was  about  replacing  it  when  his  eye 
caught  a  passage  containing  his  own  name. 

I  have  told  you  that  Dick  was  the  soul  of  honor.  If  he 
had  known  that  his  wife  did  n't  want  him  to  read  that  letter, 
he  would  n't  have  read  it.  If  he  had  imagined  for  a  moment 
that  it  contained  anything  he  should  n't  read,  or  any  secret 


HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER  63 

of  his  wife's,  he  would  have  sat  and  hlinked  at  it  all  day, 
or  perhaps  have  walked  upstairs  with  it  and  handed  it  to 
her,  saying,  "My  dear,  you  have  left  a  letter  below.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is,  or  who  it  's  from,"  and  would  have 
departed  dramatically.  But  not  knowing  what  it  was,  you 
see,  he  coolly  read  on,  commencing  at  the  paragraph  con 
taining  his  name,  as  I  do  :  — 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Dick  is  not  all  that  you  fondly 
imagined.  Don't  ask  me,  dear,  for  advice;  it  is  better  you 
should  leave  all  to  time  and  your  own  tact  and  judgment.  I 
think  that  no  one  is  capable  of  mediating  between  a  wife's 
affections  and  her  husband's  —  even  a  sister.  I  would  say 
that  you  ought  to  have  weighed  all  this  before  you  bound 
yourself  to  one  whom  you  think  is  not  worthy  of  your 
affections  ;  but  we  cannot  recall  what  is  past.  No  !  indeed. 
You  say  that  your  Dick  has  a  generous  heart,  and  in  this 
world,  dear  !  you  know  that  this  ought  to  make  up  for  other 
defects,  even  if  he  be  dull  and  stupid!  [Oh!  you  should 
have  seen  Dick's  face  at  this  moment!]  Your  sacrifice,  I 
know,  was  a  great  one,  but  men  cannot  appreciate  the  sacri 
fices  we  make.  No,  never!  But  I  will  soon  be  with  you, 
my  dearest  sister,  and  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  do  something 
for  you,  with  this  queer  being  whom  you  have  taken  for 
a  husband.  Don't  think  I  am  hardhearted  or  unsisterly 
either  if  I  can't  understand  your  feelings.  I  never  saw  the 
man  yet  that  I  could  whimper  over  or  feel  bad  about. 
'  Good-bye,'  dear,  till  I  see  you,  which  will  be  soon  ! 

"  Your  affectionate  sister, 


"Dull  and  stupid!"  He  "dull  and  stupid  !»—  he, 
—  the  delight  of  select  circles  !  —  the  witty,  fascinat 
ing,  agreeable,  gossipy  Dick!  "Dull  and  stupid!"  and 
her  sacrifice  —  her  "great  sacrifice"!  What  sacrifice? 


64  HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER 

When?  How?  Where?  And  this  was  the  return  — 
this  was  the  result  of  his  noble,  Roman-like  conduct ;  this 
was  eventuating  from  his  deeply  delicate,  poetical,  gentle 
manlike  treatment.  This  was  her  opinion  of  him  —  the 
opinion  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  the  partner  of  his  joys, 
the  sharer  of  his  wealth,  his  property  —  the  woman  he  — 
no !  not  loved  !  "  Dull  and  stupid ! "  Why,  the  woman 
was  a  fool;  they  were  both  fools!  they  were  hypocrites! 
they  were  ingrates !  they  were  —  women ! 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair.  Then  he  started  up  and 
threw  the  letter  in  the  grate,  and  carefully  replaced  his  cigar 
in  the  basket.  Then  he  burnt  his  fingers  recovering  the 
letter.  Then  he  put  his  hands  upon  his  head,  his  elbows 
upon  his  knees,  and  in  that  position  reflected. 

He  thought  he  had  better  not  say  anything  about  it. 
He  was  in  for  a  sacrifice  and  the  bigger  the  better.  "  Ho, 
there !  Bring  in  some  fagots  and  lay  'em  round  the  stake ! 
Pour  on  the  oil  and  wine  and  give  the  brands  another  poke ! 
Here's  the  spectacle  of  a  Christian  young  husband  immolated 
on  the  hymeneal  altar.  Hurrah !  Fetch  on  your  fagots ! " 

"Dull  and  stupid!"  He  liked  that!  Well,  he'd  let 
them  see  his  dullness  and  stupidity,  hereafter,  with  a  ven 
geance.  And  that  young  sister,  indeed!  A  snub-nosed, 
freckled  faced,  hoydenish  thing,  with  braids  and  mincing 
ways,  and  —  daring  to  talk  about  him  —  Dick !  —  the  man 
of  the  world !  the  blase  man,  —  as  dull  and  stupid !  Well, 
he'd  like  to  have  his  friend  Wobbles  hear  that;  how  he'd 
laugh !  At  them  ?  Of  course.  Certainly  at  them.  But 
then  he  'd  better  not  say  anything  about  it  —  on  his  wife's 
account. 

When  he  went  upstairs  to  his  wife's  chamber  he  made 
some  light,  trifling,  jocular  remark  which  I  regret  has  not 
reached  me,  but  which  had  the  effect  of  making  his  Mary 
open  her  eyes  in  meek  astonishment.  "  Dull  and  stupid," 
thought  Dick;  "indeed!" 


HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER  65 

There  was  some  little  preparation  a  week  afterward ;  and 
one  day  Dick,  coming  home,  saw  some  boxes  in  the  hall  and 
several  mysterious-looking  bundles  lying  about,  and  other 
signs  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  his  wife's  sister  had 
arrived.  Of  course,  the  recollection  of  that  letter  did  not 
tend  to  awaken  lively  anticipations  of  a  meeting  with  the 
disagreeable  "  Tip."  He  thought  at  first  that  he  would  try 
the  dignified  and  stately,  and  otherwise  impress  the  young 
woman  with  a  sense  of  her  previous  irreverence.  But  then 
he  wished  to  establish  a  character  the  opposite  of  those  adject 
ives  which  yet  swam  before  his  eyes.  "  Dull  and  stupid"  and 
"  dignified  and  stately  "  seemed  only  a  hopeless  alliteration. 
He  had  sent  the  servant  upstairs  to  inform  his  Mary  of  his 
coming,  by  way  of  preparing  the  repentant  and  humbled 
«  Tip"  for  his  awful  retributive  presence.  Then  he  changed 
his  mind  and  thought  of  rushing  upstairs  boisterously.  He 
made  a  step  toward  the  library  door  when  it  was  thrown 
open ;  two  white  arms  were  flung  about  his  neck,  two  big 
blue  eyes  looked  into  his,  while  a  pair  of  scarlet  lips  articu 
lated  in  rapid  accents :  "  My  dear !  dear  brother !  " 

Dick  was  taken  aback.  He  looked  down  at  the  beauti 
ful  and  girlish  figure  and  felt  —  he,  the  "  blase  "  man  — 
awkward  and  embarrassed.  His  lips  syllabled  a  few  com 
monplaces,  but  the  breath  of  life  seemed  to  have  left  him. 
He  could  only  lead  her  to  a  sofa  and  stand  and  gaze  at  her. 
She  was  certainly  very  pretty  —  so  like  his  wife,  and  yet 
so  unlike. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  did  so  long  to  see  you.  Why  didn't  you 
come  upstairs  ?  I  was  afraid  you  were  angry  at  something. 
You  are  not  at  all  like  Mary's  husband.  I  know  I  shall 
like  you.  You  're  my  brother,  you  know,  and  I  never  had 
a  brother;  and  I'm  sure  I  shall  love  you  so  much.  You 
don't  say  anything !  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  Why, 
you  look  pale !  You  're  sick  !  Mary !  Good  gracious !  " 

Poor  Dick !     Poor,  poor  Dick !     It  was  over.     He  was 


66  HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER 

better  now.  Yes,  he  was  calm,  too  —  he  saw  it  all.  She 
was  sitting  before  him,  on  the  very  seat  his  wife  had  occu 
pied  ;  the  same  contour  of  features ;  the  same  outline,  the 
same  figure  —  but  oh !  that  indefinable  expression  and  this 
strange  feeling  and  thrilling.  The  vision  of  his  past  life,  the 
dreams  of  his  youth  were  looking  out  of  the  anxious  pretty 
glance  that  met  his  own.  Oh,  rash,  hasty,  inconsiderate  fool ! 
He  had  stopped  one  step  short  of  perfect  affinity.  This  was 
his  wife's  sister !  wife's  sister  ?  Oh  Heavens,  he  had  mar 
ried  his  wife's  sister !  This  was  his  wife  !  The  sacrifice 
was  complete. 

No,  not  complete !  It  remained  for  him  to  smother  the 
fires  of  his  new  passion  in  the  dead  ashes  of  his  past  life. 
It  was  at  once  his  torture  and  his  crown  to  minister  to  the 
invalid  wants  of  the  real  wife  of  his  manhood,  in  company 
with  the  fair  young  ideal  wife  of  his  youth.  It  was  his 
great  glory  to  feel  the  touch  of  her  warm,  soft  hand  on  his 
brow,  when  he  sometimes  sat  alone  distractedly,  groping 
blindly  in  the  darkness  for  some  clue  to  lead  him  away 
from  the  pitfalls  that  beset  his  path.  He  could  not  help 
seeing  that  he  had  awakened  a  sympathetic  interest  in 
"  Tip's  "  young  heart  —  a  feeling  as  yet  undefined  and  holy 
in  its  nameless  orphan  purity.  But  the  sacrifice  was  not 
complete. 

They  were  sitting  alone  in  the  little  library,  and  she  sat 
opposite  to  him  in  his  wife's  chair.  He  raised  his  eyes  and 
she  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  him,  and  in  her  simple,  artless 
way  asked  his  forgiveness  ! 

"  For  what,  Tip?" 

"Well,  never  mind;  say  you'll  forgive  me.  I  once 
thought  worse  of  you  than  you  deserved  and  I  may  have 
said  something  to  Mary  ;  did  she  tell  you  anything  ?  " 

Dick  could  conscientiously  wave  a  negative. 

"  I've  changed  my  mind  since,  brother !  You  're  so 
different.  I  'm  sure  I  know  of  no  one  who  could  make 


HIS  WIFE'S  SISTER  67 

Mary  happier  than  you.  I  judge  so  by  what  I  have  seen 
of  you  and  by  my  own  feelings,  for  you  know,  Mary  and  I 
are  all  that  are  left  of  our  family.  Do  you  think  we  are 
alike  ?  I  think  that  I  shall  never  marry,  for  I  could  not 
find  another  like  Mary's  husband." 

The  artless  simplicity  and  genuine  sincerity  of  poor  Tip 
extorted  a  groan  from  Dick. 

Instantly  she  was  at  his  side.  "  Don't  worry,  brother, 
about  Mary,  she  will  be  better  soon.  I  know  how  you  feel, 
dear,  and  it  must  be  a  comfort  to  Mary  to  know  your  sym 
pathy." 

How  shall  I  end  my  story,  reader  ?  Shall  I  say  that 
Tip  was  again  wrong;  that  Mary  did  not  get  better  ?  That 
she  lingered  for  a  while  and,  striving  to  bring  a  feeble,  im 
mortal  soul  into  this  earthly  light,  laid  down  her  own  dear 
woman's  life,  a  willing  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  ?  Shall  I 
say  that  Tip  and  Dick  stood  by  holding  her  hands,  when 
the  first  cry  of  the  struggling  immortal  heralded  her  way  to 
the  home  it  just  had  quitted  ?  How  that  the  poor  mother 
less  child  found  a  guardian  angel  in  Tip  ? 

How  else  can  I  marry  Dick  to  his  wife's  sister  ? 


A  CASE  OF  BLASTED  AFFECTIONS1 

I  NEVER  had  any  astonishing  adventure  in  an  omnibus. 
I  never  had  the  privilege  of  paying  the  fare  of  any  beautiful 
young  lady  who  had  lost  her  porte-monnaie.  I  never  pro 
tected  any  lady  passenger  from  the  advances  of  a  Fiend  in 
Human  Shape.  I  never  got  out  to  give  my  seat  to  a  fair  un 
known,  who  thanked  me  with  a  deep  blush,  and  handed  me 
her  card  —  being  the  only  daughter  of  a  stern  but  well-known 
citizen  with  a  palatial  residence  at  South  Park,  etc.,  etc. 
On  the  contrary,  I  have  held  frantic  children  and  taken 
care  of  dyspeptic  lap-dogs.  I  have  been  entrusted  with 
bundles  which  became  vitalized  in  my  hands,  and  would 
undo  themselves,  and  cover  me  with  hooks  and  eyes,  and 
spools  of  cotton.  I  have  gone  down  from  the  light  of  day 
under  a  cloud  of  crinoline  on  either  side.  I  am  the  un 
fortunate  ' « gentleman  "  who  always  makes  "  room  for  a 
lady,"  and  have  been  poked  with  a  parasol  for  my  pains.  I 
can't  see  that  putting  people  like  pills  in  a  box  and  shaking 
them  tends  to  make  them  social  —  but  like  the  pills  they 
are  apt  as  perfect  spheres  to  round  off  from  each  other 
whenever  they  come  in  contact. 

Yet,  because  an  apple  never  dropped  on  my  head  I  have 
no  reason  to  doubt  the  theory  of  gravitation  j  and  I  have  no 
cause  to  be  skeptical  regarding  my  young  friend  Puffer's 
blasted  affections,  just  because  I  never  was  elected  to  ro 
mance  and  adventure. 

It  was  a  bright  May  day  in  San  Francisco,  and  spring 
bonnets  were  just  coming  out,  when  Alexis  Puffer  hailed  a 
1  Golden  Era,  October  21,  1860. 


A  CASE  OF  BLASTED  AFFECTIONS  69 

South  Park  and  North  Beach  omnibus  on  the  corner  of 
Stockton  and  Pacific  Streets.  He  was  attired  in  the  height 
of  the  prevailing  fashion  and  his  boots  were  glossy  as  the 
raven's  wing.  (You  may  have  met  that  idea  of  the  "  ra 
ven's  wing  "  as  applied  to  the  hair  of  the  human  head.  I 
only  claim  the  merit  of  Boucicaulting  it  in  another  situa 
tion.)  Entering  the  stage,  with  that  graceful  listlessness 
which  betokens  the  perfect  gentleman,  but  exasperates  the 
waiting  passengers  and  drives  the  driver  nearly  to  the  verge 
of  madness,  he  seated  himself  by  the  door,  and  applying  the 
ivory  leg  with  which  the  top  of  his  cane  was  appropriately 
ornamented,  he  sucked  it  thoughtfully  for  five  minutes.  Not 
deriving  the  comfort  therefrom  which  might  be  expected,  he 
turned  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  on  his  fellow-passengers. 
The  people  who  were  looking  at  him  immediately  looked 
out  of  the  door  and  windows  with  that  affected  carelessness 
which  is  always  fatal.  Only  one  sat  unmoved.  It  was  a 
young  girl  on  the  opposite  side,  close  to  the  driver's  box, 
with  her  veil  partially  covering  her  face,  but  with  one  eye 
unmasked  in  the  Turkish  fashion  and  still  gazing  intently 
at  him.  She  was  very  pretty  —  not  perhaps  a  Greek  out 
line,  you  know,  for  since  the  days  of  Phidias,  energy  and 
books  have  wrought  over  the  old  model.  The  brow  has 
been  lifted,  the  curve  of  the  upper  lip  shortened,  and  action 
has  taken  the  place  of  repose.  Electric  telegraphs  and 
steam  engines  have  opened  Juno's  half-shut  eyes.  The 
glance  that  was  turned  on  poor  Puffer  was  thrilling,  and 
bright  and  pitiless.  It  was  the  eye  of  the  beauty  of  A.D. 
1860! 

Puffer  was  not  a  man  to  be  abashed  by  a  pretty  woman's 
glance,  but  he  felt  not  altogether,  exactly  comfortable.  He 
looked  back  at  her  admiringly  and  she  met  his  eyes  with 
unflinching  coolness.  He  smiled  affably.  Her  pretty  lip 
scarcely  quivered,  but  she  did  not  avert  her  gaze.  Suddenly 
Mr.  Alexis  Puffer  felt  a  strange  moisture  come  over  his 


70  A  CASE  OF   BLASTED  AFFECTIONS 

eyes  and  he  was  fain  to  turn  feebly  to  the  window.  Re 
covering  himself,  he  looked  hack  at  her  again.  The  hig  hlue 
eye  met  his  as  before,  and  he  fancied  a  gleam  of  pitiless 
triumph.  But  the  water  coming  into  his  own  again  made 
him  drop  his  lids  and  take  out  his  handkerchief,  in  a  weak, 
foolish  way.  The  contest  was  unequal,  and  Puffer  wilted. 

As  the  omnibus  jolted  along,  Puffer  became  aware  of 
three  things.  First:  That  he  was  in  love  with  the  fair 
unknown.  Second:  That  she  must  be  his  wife.  Third: 
It  wouldn't  do  to  have  a  wife  that  one  couldn't  ogle.  He 
again  slowly  turned  his  head  toward  the  mysterious  female, 
but  with  the  same  result ;  she  had  not  apparently  once 
averted  her  gaze  since  he  had  entered.  One  by  one  the 
passengers  were  dropped  along  the  route,  but  Puffer  re 
solved  to  stay  until  she  had  departed  or  until  they  were  left 
alone  together.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that 
this  strange  glance  was  the  result  of  an  unconscious  soul 
seeking  its  affinity.  A  few  moments  would  explain  all. 
At  last  the  portly  stranger  opposite  got  out  and  they  were 
alone. 

Puffer  had  resolved  upon  some  trivial  remark  by  the  way 
of  opening  conversation,  and  on  looking  up  was  relieved  to 
see  that  the  clear  eye  of  the  fair  unknown  was  turned  to 
the  opposite  window.  He  was  about  to  speak,  but  at  this 
moment  the  following  singular  circumstance  intervened. 

To  it,  Puffer  frequently  avers,  he  owes  his  eternal  happi 
ness. 

A  mosquito  was  buzzing  in  the  vicinity  of  the  lovely 
young  woman.  Once  or  twice  she  raised  a  neatly  gloved 
hand  to  keep  off  the  rash  intruder  who  seemed  bent  upon 
feasting  upon  that  round,  rosy  cheek.  The  winged  guerilla, 
however,  yet  hovered  about  and  approached  the  unconscious 
young  female  who  was  still  absorbed  in  pensive  contempla 
tion  of  the  opposite  window.  It  neared  her  brow ;  and  again 
retired ;  it  again  approached,  and  oh  gracious !  it  lit  upon  the 


A  CASE  OF  BLASTED   AFFECTIONS  71 

open  pupil  of  the  big  blue  eye.  It  was  feasting  there  upon 
her  eye,  and  she  sat  unwinking. 

In  an  instant  the  impetuous  Puffer  was  at  her  side  and 
had  dashed  his  fist  in  her  lovely  optic.  She  screamed,  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands  murmured  piteously, "  My 
eye." 

Puffer  sank  at  her  feet. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Miss ;  it  is  not  injured  fatally,  I  trust ! 
I  saw  the  insect !  —  perhaps  I  was  rude  —  nay,  rough ;  but 
I  trust  I  have  saved  your  eyesight.  Forgive  me,  dearest ; 
forgive  me  !  "  said  Puffer,  with  heart-rending  accents. 

"  Brute  !  monster !  you  've  knocked  my  eye  out !  " 

"Loveliest  creature,  say  you  jest!  How  could  such  a 
slight  touch  —  " 

"  Oh,  dear!  don't  talk !  but  find  it  —  it's  here  somewhere," 
and  she  sank  on  her  knees  and  fumbled  among  the  straw. 

Something  was  glistening  there.  Puffer  picked  it  up.  It 
was  her  eye.  A  glass  one! 

Puffer  sank  senseless  in  the  straw.  He  was  removed  at 
the  terminus. 


"KAN  AWAY"1 

AT  an  early  and  sensitive  age  I  was  subjected  to  an  act 
of  grievous  injustice.  I  have  no  remembrance  of  what  it 
was,  except  a  general  impression  that  it  must  have  been  of 
an  appalling  and  irremediable  character.  Whether  remotely 
connected  with  the  quality  of  the  pudding  made  by  my 
maternal  aunt,  or  whether  a  long  sustained  deficiency  of 
butter  and  sugar  on  my  daily  bread  swelled  my  youthful 
bosom  almost  to  bursting  —  I  cannot  remember.  I  only 
know  that  it  was  of  that  crushing,  desolate,  and  irretrieva 
ble  nature,  that  even  the  hopeful  imagination  of  youth, 
looking  into  the  glowing  vista  of  futurity,  saw  but  one 
avenue  of  escape.  It  was  a  dreadful  and  sacrificial  alter 
native.  I  took  it  and  —  ran  away. 

Ran  Away  !  Let  me  recall  the  figures  which  would 
arise  before  me  at  that  tender  age  in  conjunction  with  those 
awful  words.  I  see  a  small  but  thick-set  young  man,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  rather  blurred  and  indistinct,  with  a  stick  on 
his  shoulder  with  a  bag  hanging  on  it,  and  his  leg  raised  in 
a  singular  manner.  I  know  that  he  is  an  "Indented 
Apprentice,"  and  an  indented  apprentice  I  feel  must  be 
worse  than  any  other  kind  of  apprentice.  I  connect  him 
with  a  dreadful  bond  which  I  believe  to  be  signed  with 
his  blood,  making  him  body  and  soul  the  property  of  his 
master.  He  is  always  running  away  from  the  "  subscriber." 
I  have  got  him  mixed  up  with  that  dreadful  "  Tom  Idle," 
but  he  always  retains  his  bundle  and  stick,  and  that  raised 
leg  is  as  distinctive  a  feature  of  my  childish  memory  as 
Johnny  Horner's  thumb.  I  have  often  lain  awake  in  my 
little  crib  and  pictured  him  rushing  through  the  streets  in 
1  Golden  Era,  November  4,  1860. 


RAN  AWAY  73 

his  favorite  attitude,  pursued  by  that  relentless  and , cruel 
"subscriber."  I  have  tracked  him  in  fancy  on  stormy 
nights,  wandering  over  cold  and  desolate  fields — facing  the 
beating  of  the  pitiless  blast ;  or  stopping  in  a  wayside  inn 
and  picking  up  the  newspaper  containing  that  advertise 
ment,  and  starting  off  again  horror-struck  at  that  dreadful 
picture  of  himself  which  he  surely  must  recognize.  I  have 
seen  that  dreadful  phrase  applied  to  horses  and  dogs.  I 
have  stood  on  the  corners  of  streets,  and  waited  patiently 
for  the  coming  of  that  horse  sixteen  hands  high  with  a  star 
on  his  forehead  and  spot  on  his  off  foreleg,  which  I  should 
instantly  recognize,  and  go  up  to  him  with  a  piece  of  salt 
in  my  hand  (which  in  anticipation  I  always  carried  in  my 
pocket)  and  would  take  him  home  to  that  "  subscriber," 
and  receive  a  large  amount  of  gold  money  which  would 
keep  me  comfortably  in  marbles  and  taffy  for  the  rest  of 
my  existence.  I  have  brought  home  numberless  curs  of  low 
degree  and  compared  them  with  the  description  of  the  white 
and  liver-colored  pointer  belonging  to  another  "subscriber." 
These  were  the  associations  with  which  that  strange  and 
fascinating  phrase  at  that  age  surrounded  me,  and  which  I 
was  destined  to  realize  when  I  ran  away. 

I  gave  myself  five  minutes  for  preparation.  My  outfit, 
I  flattered  myself,  was  complete.  It  consisted  of  an  in 
valuable  Protean  knife  which  professed  to  do  everything 
that  boy  could  ask  —  be  everything  that  boy  could  require 
—  that  commenced  as  a  saw  and  ended  as  a  corkscrew ;  a 
roll  of  twine  and  a  button ;  two  pieces  of  colored  glass ; 
the  top  of  a  gold  pencil ;  a  peculiar  kind  of  cake  —  resem 
bling  in  shape  the  almanac  cuts  of  the  sun  —  called  a  Boli 
var  ;  two  fish-hooks  deeply  embedded  in  the  lining  of  my 
pocket;  the  round  brass  runner  from  the  leg  of  an  easy- 
chair,  which  I  carried,  as  boys  always  carry  some  one  par 
ticular  article,  for  no  earthly  object  —  but  with  a  strong 
faith  in  its  utility.  I  had  two  cents  accessible.  I  say 


74  RAN  AWAY 

accessible,  having  once  lost  a  sixpence  which  I  firmly  be 
lieved  to  be  in  the  lining  of  my  jacket,  and  which  in  cases 
of  emergency  I  always  felt  sure  I  could  be  able  to  produce 
by  the  aid  of  my  knife.  My  attire  was  a  gray  jacket  with 
the  epidemic  eruption  of  button,  Scotch  plaid  trousers,  drab 
gaiters  buttoning  halfway  up  my  calf,  and  a  straw  hat. 
My  physical  peculiarities  were  a  large  head,  round  stomach, 
and  short  legs.  My  household  appellative  —  derived  from 
the  foregoing  description,  I  imagine  —  was  "  Tubbs." 

When  I  crept  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  front  door 
and  thence  down  the  steps,  there  was  a  choking  in  my 
throat  and  a  quivering  of  the  upper  lip  which  only  the 
memory  of  that  Awful  Wrong  could  restrain.  I  had  a  faint 
idea  of  walking  toward  the  country,  where  I  had  no  doubt 
there  was  field  for  adventure  for  all  small  boys  who  ran  away. 
This  preference  was  opposed  to  another  in  regard  to  Desert 
Islands,  which  I  knew  to  be  only  accessible  by  ship.  But 
there  was  one  consideration  paramount  to  all.  Freed  from 
restraint  and  having — I  felt — cut  society,  I  resolved  to 
do  two  things  which  I  had  been  especially  forbidden.  I 
went  down  on  the  wharf  and  with  gloomy  satisfaction 
walked  on  the  string-piece  of  the  pier.  I  never  have  been 
able  to  recollect  why  I  did  so,  except  that  I  knew  my  par- 
ents  would  have  been  frantic  if  they  had  known  it.  Then 
there  was  a  certain  disreputable  porter  house  where  I  had 
once  been  found  after  school  hours,  gazing  with  evident 
admiration  at  two  greasy,  red-faced  men  playing  cards,  and 
keeping  count  for  them  on  my  slate.  Having  been  threat 
ened  with  punishment  if  the  offense  was  ever  repeated,  in 
my  present  state  of  lawlessness  and  freedom  I  felt  that  I 
ought  to  go  there.  But  haply  for  my  morals,  on  entering 
the  sanded  room,  a  red-faced,  masculine  woman,  who  was 
killing  flies  with  a  towel,  rushed  up  to  me,  exclaiming, 
"  Home  wid  yez,"  and  whisked  me  out  of  the  house.  I 
terribly  frightened:  but  more  than  that,  my  confidence 


KAN  AWAY  75 

and  inviolability  as  a  runaway  was  bruised  and  shaken. 
The  dreadful  words,  "Home  wid  yez,"  rang  in  my  ears. 
Home  ?  Did  she  not  recognize  in  me  a  bold  adventurer 
who  scorned  such  a  thing  as  home  ? 

Let  me  recall  for  the  sake  of  those  few  grown-up  child 
ren  who  may  read  these  pages  —  turning  back  to  the  leaves 
of  their  childish  memories  to  compare  my  experience  with 
theirs  —  let  me  recall  a  few  incidents  of  that  eventful  occa 
sion.  Behold  me,  when  with  strong  courage  and  deter 
mined  purpose,  I  have  penetrated  to  the  great  throbbing 
artery  of  the  mighty  city.  I  have  become  subdued,  hushed, 
and  awe-stricken.  'Everything  looks  so  large.  Though 
familiar  with  this  broad  avenue,  never  do  I  find  it  as  long, 
as  interminable,  as  choked  with  human  life  as  then.  I  feel 
myself  lost  in  the  moving  crowd  —  a  purposeless,  helpless 
little  being,  drifting  on  the  downward  current.  I  fancy 
that  people  notice  my  vagueness  of  purpose,  and  I  take  out 
my  handkerchief  and  tie  up  the  colored  glass  and  the  broken 
runner,  and  make  a  point  of  carrying  the  bundle  thus 
formed  ostentatiously  in  my  hand.  Suddenly  all  the  bells 
ring  throughout  the  city.  I  think  of  Bow  Bells  and 
Richard  Whittington,  but  my  fancy  refuses  a  favorable 
interpretation.  The  bell  of  St.  John's  is  calling  out :  \ 
"  Ean-a-way,  ran-a-way ! "  St.  Paul's  takes  up  the  burden, 
adding  :  "  Lit-tle-boy,  lit-tle-boy  "  ;  while  Trinity,  away  up 
in  its  smoky  elevation,  calls  out  for  them  to  "  Send-him- 
back,  send-him-back,"  until  the  hand  on  the  dial  passes 
noon,  and  I  sink  upon  a  doorstep  in  poignant  anguish. 

I  shake  out  another  coil  of  my  memory,  and  see  myself, 
as  the  shadows  lengthen,  staggering  along  toward  the  region 
of  green  fields  —  my  ultima  Thule.  I  have  become  pos 
sessed  in  some  mysterious  way  of  half  a  watermelon,  and  a 
miserable  cur  with  whom  I  have  shared  my  cake  has  appar 
ently  made  up  his  mind  to  run  away  in  company  with  me. 
But  when  the  cake  is  gone  his  attention  becomes  distracted 


76  RAN   AWAY 

by  bones  and  old  boots,  and  at  last  he  openly  deserts.  I  meet 
a  boy  two  or  three  years  my  senior,  who  promises  to  become 
my  man  Friday,  who  informs  me  that  his  name  is  "  Patsey," 
and  who  whistles  in  a  peculiarly  shrill  and  charming  man 
ner  with  his  fingers  between  his  teeth.  After  imparting 
my  plans  to  him,  I  make  a  formal  division  of  my  property. 
I  give  him  my  knife,  the  colored  glass,  and  the  runner. 
He  stipulates  to  erect  a  suitable  stockade  dwelling  by  the 
aid  of  the  magical  knife ;  and  the  colored  glass  he  is  to  give 
in  barter  to  the  Indians  which  I  inform  him  we  shall  meet 
in  great  numbers  in  the  country.  The  transfer  of  these 
articles,  however,  seems  to  excite  a  singular  influence  over 
Patsey.  He  once  or  twice  sidles  up  against  me,  with  one 
side  of  his  body  in  a  very  rigid  state  and  the  other  swaying 
loosely  about.  He  turns  up  the  sleeves  of  his  jacket  sus 
piciously.  Suddenly  he  stops,  and  walks  me  up  against 
the  fence,  his  rigid  side  toward  me,  and  puts  the  following 
denunciatory  query :  — 

"Ain't  you  a  Crosby  Streeter?" 

I  reply  that  I  am  not. 

"Nor  anEllum  Streeter?" 

I  disavow  any  knowledge  of  Elm  Street. 

"  Why,  blank  your  blank  blank  soul,  you  blank  little 
blank !  Who  in  blank  are  you  lying  to  ?  Blank  you!  " 

In  great  tribulation  at  this  unexpected  change  of  manner, 
I  proceed  to  inform  him  that  my  last  place  of  residence  be 
ing  Abingdon  Square,  I  must  of  necessity  be  an  Abingdon 
Squarer.  To  my  increasing  terror,  his  democratic  bosom 
rebelled  at  the  aristocratic  title,  causing  him  to  suddenly 
knock  my  hat  off,  square  off,  and  dance  backward  on  one 
leg  in  the  most  appalling  manner,  shrieking  out:  — 

"  Here 's  a  go —  my  eye !  Oh,  you  blank  stiffy !  Blank 
you,  I  '11  go  with  you  ?  Oh,  won't  I !  Hello,  Carrots,  Swip- 
sey,  here  's  a  stiffy  !  Blank  him !  Oh,  Blank  !  Blank  !  " 

In  this  manner  he  retreats,  vehemently  calling  upon  Car- 


RAN  AWAY  77 

rots  and  Swipsey  to  annihilate  me,  and  forgetting  in  his  dis 
gust  to  return  my  knife,  my  colored  glass,  and  my  runner. 
A  doleful  and  sickening  sense  of  loneliness  comes  over  me 
with  his  defection.  I  begin  to  think  there  are  cruelties 
and  wrongs  in  this  world  as  bad  as  that  Awful  Wrong  I  ran 
away  from. 

Another  flash  along  the  back  track.  It  is  twilight  of  the 
long  summer  day,  and  having  given  up  the  idea  of  pastoral  life 
I  am  walking  toward  the  water  with  the  intention  of  shipping 
as  cabin  boy.  I  wonder  if  there  are  any  vessels  up  for  the 
Isle  of  France.  I  should  like  to  go  to  the  island  where 
Captain  Cook  was  killed,  but  I  have  forgotten  the  name. 
I  shall  find  out  probably  when  I  get  down  to  the  ships.  I 
shall  make  a  three  years'  voyage,  at  which  time  I  shall 
have  grown  up  beyond  recognition.  I  shall  come  back  with 
a  great  deal  of  gold  money  which  I  shall  carry  in  little  bags 
marked  $20,000,  $30,000,  etc.  I  will  find  Patsey  and  lick 
him  and  send  him  to  sea,  and  give  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
the  Elm  and  Crosby  Streeters.  I  shall  drive  down  home 
in  a  carriage  just  as  my  Uncle  Ned  did  when  he  came  back 
from  Europe,  and  create  a  great  sensation  and  have  my  aunt 
bring  out  the  pie  which  she  only  gives  to  company.  I  shall 
then  say,  ' '  Behold,  your  long  lost  nephew ! "  or  words  to 
that  effect  and  get  into  my  carriage,  and  immediately  drive 
away,  leaving  them  petrified  in  astonishment.  But  I  won 
der  what  they  will  do  with  my  old  clothes,  and  whether 
they  will  put  anybody  in  my  little  bed,  and  if  they  will 
get  anybody  to  repeat  "The  boy  stood  on  the  burning 
deck  "  for  them,  when  there  is  company,  as  I  did.  And  it 
was  real  mean  in  them  to  treat  me  as  they  did  —  and  be 
hold,  I  am  crying ! 

I  look  back  again,  and  lo!  I  am  standing  before  a  great 
building  with  glistening  lights  and  people  passing  into  a 
large  hall,  and  a  great  bill,  in  letters  as  large  as  myself, 
announcing  the  tragedy  of  "  King  John  " !  I  am  looking 


78  RAN  AWAY 

wistfully  at  the  handbill,  when  a  young  man  with  a  pleas 
ant  face  takes  me  by  the  shoulder  and  asks  me  if  I  think 
I  '11  honor  the  house  with  my  distinguished  presence.  I 
shrink  back  bashfully,  but  am  not  frightened  at  the  expres 
sion  of  his  comely  features.  He  repeats  the  question,  when 
I  tell  him  that  I  have  no  money.  He  holds  out  his  hand. 
I  look  at  him,  with  that  quick  perception  of  physiognomy 
which  I  believe  God  gives  peculiarly  to  children  and  wo 
men,  and  take  it,  and  before  I  know  well  where  I  go  I  am 
in  a  blaze  of  gaslight  and  excitement.  I  "  do  "  the  play  of 
"  King  John  "  completely  as  I  have  never  done  it  since  — 
with  a  painful  conception  of  that  Hubert  and  the  hot  irons. 
I  come  out  with  the  funny  young  man,  and  he  offers  to  see 
me  safe  home.  I  dread  to  tell  him  that  I  have  run  away, 
as  I  think  he  will  only  laugh  when  I  talk  about  that  Awful 
Wrong,  and  so  I  tell  him  I  live  in  Fourteenth  Street,  re 
solving  to  leave  him  at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  pursue 
the  even  tenor  of  my  way  toward  the  ships  and  the  Isle  of 
France.  But  I  distinctly  remember,  as  we  walk  along,  he 
points  to  a  large  house  in  one  of  the  cross-streets  and  tells 
me  incidentally  that  he  "  hangs  out  "  there.  There  is  such 
a  strange  fascination  in  the  expression  that  I  do  not  won 
der  that  many  years  after  I  had  been  Found,  I  always  re 
verently  passed  that  spot  and  looked  up  at  the  windows, 
not  without  a  vague  hope  of  seeing  my  quondam  friend  sus 
pended  from  the  roof  and  smiling  pleasantly  at  me.  But  I 
left  him  at  the  corner  of  the  street  and  never  saw  him 
again. 

One  more  reflect  and  the  last.  I  have  given  up  all  idea 
of  going  to  the  Isle  of  France  that  night,  for  sooth  to  say 
my  head  is  giddy  and  aching  and  I  am  very  weary  and 
sleepy.  I  doubt  very  much  if  I  could  find  the  ships. 
And  I  have  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  play  that  I 
had  no  supper.  And  I  should  like  to  go  to  bed.  I  walk 
along,  but  I  do  not  find  any  tree  to  lie  under,  and  doubt 


KAN  AWAY  79 

very  much  if  I  did  that  the  robins  would  come  down  at 
that  time  of  night  to  cover  me  with  leaves.  I  keep  shy  of 
policemen  in  my  memory  of  the  Indented  Apprentice,  and 
shrink  in  the  shadow  of  an  area  when  I  see  a  stranger. 
But  I  find  suddenly  that  the  houses  seem  to  be  getting  in 
my  way  and  the  lamp-posts  occur  so  frequently.  I  must 
be  very  sleepy.  And  I  think  I  am  a  little  sick.  I  know 
I  have  a  pain.  My  last  act  of  volition  is  to  crawl  up  a 
flight  of  steps  where  there  is  a  rug  and  lie  down  upon  it. 
I  believe  that  I  am  dreadfully  injured  and  that  the  people 
who  drove  me  to  this  will  never  go  to  the  Heaven  that  I 
see  above  me  and  the  stars  that  twinkle  as  if  they  were 
sleepy,  too.  I  fall  asleep.  It  is  only  to  become  Arthur 
and  know  that  Patsey  is  putting  out  my  eyes.  I  am  em 
barked  on  a  watermelon  for  the  Isle  of  France,  but  I  slip 
off  and  am  drowning.  I  am  very  sick  and  my  head  aches. 
I  am  an  indented  apprentice  running  away  from  my  master. 
I  see  them  putting  bills  up  on  the  theatre,  and  when  I  go 
to  read  them  I  see  "  Kan  Away  "  in  dreadfully  big  letters, 
and  the  bells  suddenly  begin  to  ring  and  say  "  Send-him- 
back."  And  then,  there  is  the  noise  of  a  carriage  and  a 
sweet  woman's  voice,  and  somebody  is  saying,  "Poor  little 
fellow ! "  And  the  sweet  woman's  voice  seems  to  come 
from  somebody  dressed  in  a  ball  dress,  and  there  are  gentle 
men  with  white  kids  on  their  hands  and  a  strong  smell  of 
perfume,  and  then  lights,  and  then  somebody  is  rubbing 
me  and  pouring  something  down  my  throat  and  washing 
my  face.  And  then  I  go  to  sleep  for  several  weeks,  as  it 
seems,  and  somebody  rushes  up  to  me  and  kisses  me  frantic 
ally  and  cries  and  sobs,  which  surely  cannot  be  my  aunt, 
and  I  am  taken  away  in  a  carriage,  and  I  am  a  hero  and 
the  envy  of  my  brother  who  used  to  bully  me,  and  allowed 
to  do  as  I  please,  everybody  believing  that  if  thwarted  in 
any  way  I  will  surely  revenge  myself  again,  and  —  Run 
Away. 


MADAME  BKIMBOKION1 

MADAME  BRIMBORION  left  New  York  quite  suddenly. 
She  made  up  her  mind  one  morning  while  making  up  her 
long  black  hair  at  the  glass  in  her  neat  little  back  bedroom. 
She  did  n't  tell  her  bosom  friends  and  relations  —  for  she 
had  n't  any.  But  she  made  some  few  business  arrangements, 
and  that  day  week  put  up  the  shutters  in  front  of  the  three 
straw  bonnets  that  hung  in  the  bow  window  of  her  shop. 
Before  the  neighbors  had  fairly  commenced  wondering  what 
had  become  of  the  pretty  French  Milliner,  the  pretty  French 
Milliner  had  embarked  on  a  long  journey. 

It  was  said  that  some  susceptible  masculine  hearts  were 
crushed  by  this  singular  freak  of  Madame' s.  I  don't  think 
it  was  Madame's  fault,  for  although  prompt  of  tongue,  and 
ever  ready  with  the  flash  of  black  eyes  and  white  teeth,  she 
had  given  no  encouragement.  A  majority  of  her  sex  found 
fault  with  her  for  being  "  forward  "  —  of  course,  altogether 
from  her  desire,  and  not  her  ability,  to  please.  The  exhi 
bition  of  these  genial  fascinations  had  the  usual  effect  upon 
the  stronger  and  wiser  of  my  species.  Young  men  winked 
at  each  other  when  Madame  Brimborion's  name  was  men 
tioned.  Indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  most  sagacious,  who  had 
taken  large  and  liberal  views  of  society  from  the  shilling 
side  of  Broadway,  and  indulged  in  like  exhausting  dissipa 
tions,  felt  called  upon  to  express  their  opinions  that  she  had 
gone  off  with  some  "  buck  "  or  other,  just  as  they  expected. 

But  even  the  knowledge  of  the  world  gathered  under  such 
favorable  auspices  was  in  this  instance  incorrect.  The 
black-eyed  gazelle,  Madame  B.,  was  accompanied  by  no 
l  Golden  Era,  February  3,  1861. 


MADAME   BRIMBOKION  81 

male  of  her  kind.  She  made  the  long  journey  alone. 
Female  companionship  she  had  none,  except  that  afforded 
her  by  two  of  my  fair  countrywomen  who  shared  her  state 
room.  The  association  was  unharmonious.  Madame  B. 
committed  grave  faults.  She  preferred  the  deck  to  her 
stateroom,  masculine  to  feminine  society,  and  was  unfailing 
in  cheerfulness  and  vivacity.  If  Madame  was  seasick  she 
kept  it  to  herself.  Such  dissimulation  and  deceit,  of  course, 
met  with  the  proper  degree  of  coldness  and  contempt  from 
the  rest  of  her  sex. 

The  long  journey  had  the  usual  effect  upon  this  floating 
microcosm  of  character.  There  was  the  common  experience 
of  little  vulgarities  and  petty  selfishness.  Gentle  hearts 
boiled  over  with  rage  against  each  other,  and  even  peaceful 
doves  learned  to  peck.  But  Madame  B.  floated  quite  calm 
ly  on  the  top  of  this  seething,  boiling  cauldron.  The  lady  pas 
sengers  conferred  with  each  other.  A  jury  retired,  and  the 
verdict  rendered  was  short  but  decisive.  Impropriety  in 
the  first  degree.  Sentence  —  transportation  to  Coventry. 

Meanwhile  the  steamer  rolled  and  plunged  —  until  a  low 
latitude  was  reached  and  the  green  flash  of  a  tropical  sea. 
When  the  heat  grew  intense  and  the  smell  of  oil  and  bed 
ding  and  victuals  seemed  more  oppressive,  a  fatal  epidemic 
broke  out  among  the  steerage  passengers,  and  occasionally  a 
body  was  committed  to  the  deep. 

If  Madame  B.'s  popularity  with  the  sterner  sex  had  been 
waning,  it  would  have  been  suddenly  revived  by  her  conduct 
on  the  present  occasion.  She  moved  like  an  angel  of  mercy 
among  the  sick.  In  the  foul  gloom  and  dampness  of  a 
crowded  steerage,  she  stood  by  the  little  ready-made  biers 
whereon  the  men  stretched  themselves  out  to  die,  in  the 
midst  of  corruption.  It  was  the  flash  of  Madame's  eyes 
and  teeth  that  lit  up  this  pestiferous  gloom  —  it  was  the 
soft  touch  of  Madame's  fingers  that  seemed  to  have  gone 
over  the  old  wrinkles  and  lines  of  trouble  and  passion  in 


82  MADAME  BRIMBORION 

the  dying  face,  and  to  have  brought  out  the  underlying  of 
a  better  self. 

It  was  a  pleasant  moonlight  night  and  the  passengers 
were  lazily  grouped  about  the  steamer's  deck.  The  regular 
beat  of  paddles  broke  the  monotonous  silence  with  quite  as 
monotonous  an  expression.  The  ship's  bell  had  just  struck, 
when  a  terrible  scream  thrilled  the  crowded  ship  from  stem 
to  stern.  For  a  moment  after,  the  noise  of  the  paddles 
seemed  hushed.  Then  there  was  a  confused  murmur  of  the 
passengers  and  a  rushing  to  and  fro.  Presently  all  was  ex 
plained.  Madame  Brimborion  had  tripped  in  the  darkness 
of  the  lower  deck  and  had  almost  fallen  through  the  hatch 
way.  But  to  all  the  gallant  inquiries  of  the  gentlemen, 
Madame  replied  that  she  was  very  foolish  and  frightened, 
and  that  she  was  better  —  with  the  old  promptness  of  smile 
and  glance.  But  the  ladies  thought  that  Madame  looked 
pale.  And  the  ladies  were  right. 

There  was  another  burial  next  day ;  a  foreigner  with  a 
queer  name  —  a  steerage  passenger.  His  effects  were  taken 
charge  of  by  the  purser  of  the  ship,  who  was  a  quiet  young 
man  with  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  his  duties.  In  one 
of  his  listless  walks  that  day  about  the  deck,  he  stopped  in 
front  of  Madame's  stateroom.  Madame  was  quite  languid, 
but  pleasant  as  ever.  Purser  was  glad  to  see  that  Madame 
looked  so  well,  and  had  something  to  give  her.  He  drew 
a  small,  old-fashioned  ivory  miniature  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  Madame.  It  was  the  likeness  of  a  young 
woman  with  bright  black  eyes  and  an  expressive  mouth. 
"  I  took  it  from  his  neck  myself,  Madame,  and  I  think 
none  else  saw  it,"  was  the  only  explanation  of  this  discreet 
young  officer,  as  he  departed. 

Madame  Brimborion's  name  has  long  been  changed.  She 
married  very  well,  I  have  heard,  and  makes  an  exemplary 
ornament  to  society,  with  her  strong  social  qualities. 


THE  LOST  HEIEESS1 

A  TALE  OF  THE  OAKLAND  BAB 

One  of  Bret  Harte's  early  burlesques,  a  forerunner  of  his  "  Condensed 
Novels."  J.  Keyser,  whose  inimitable  limnings  of  high-life  form  the 
standing  topic  of  conversation  in  the  polished  circles  of  metropolitan  so 
ciety,  asserts  another  claim  to  the  admiration  of  the  lovers  of  refined  family 
literature,  by  his  remarkably  elegant  tale  of  "The  Lost  Heiress."  — Press 
Notice  from  the  Golden  Era. 

NOT  a  hundred  miles  from  the  luxurious  and  glittering 
metropolis  of  this  State  breaks  upon  the  enraptured  view 
the  fair  city  of  Oakland.  Its  inhabitants  are  chiefly  com 
posed  of  pure  and  exalted  beings  whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
visit  and  an  honor  to  know.  They  are  generally  affluent 
and  genteel. 

It  has  majestic  groves  and  massy  parks  and  costly  country- 
seats.  Property  is,  indeed,  valuable  in  Oakland.  One  of 
the  largest  country-seats  I  have  ever  beheld  is  in  the  centre 
of  Oakland.*  It  is,  indeed,  an  elegant  place  of  luxury  and 
leisure  and  respectable  refinement. 

Wearied  by  the  duties  of  fashionable  life  and  nearly  con 
sumed  by  ennui,  one  magnificent  Sunday  morning  I  visited 
there.  I  proceeded  instantly  to  the  residence  of  one  of  the 
first  families,  and  was  treated  to  a  sumptuous  entertainment. 
The  table  was  furnished  with  all  that  the  market  could 
afford,  and  I  was  privately  informed  by  my  generous  host 
that  the  wine  of  which  I  partook  was  worth  $5  a  bottle.  I 
merely  quote  this  circumstance  to  give  an  instance  of  the 
real  nature  of  genteel  and  aristocratic  society  with  which 
I  am  familiar. 

*  The  talented  author  has  committed  an  error  —  the  building  alluded  to 
was  the  Agricultural  Pavilion. 

1  Golden  Era,  February  24,  1861. 


84  THE  LOST   HEIRESS 

After  dinner  a  gilded  coupe  was  brought  to  the  house, 
and  when  my  host  and  I  were  seated  therein,  we  drove 
through  the  magnificent  suburbs.  As  we  passed  a  large 
mansion  he  pointed  to  it  silently,  and  suddenly  burst  into 
tears.  "Why  this  sudden  emotion?"  I  inquired,  with 
sympathetic  condolence,  proffering  at  the  same  moment  my 
embroidered  mouchoir.  "Leave  me,"  he  only  said  in  a 
choking  voice.  I  immediately  got  out  and  left  him,  assum 
ing  the  character  of  a  pedestrian. 

Two  weeks  after,  when  he  had  sufficiently  recovered 
he  told  me  the  following  affecting  story.  Respect  to 
his  affluent  circumstances  and  our  mutual  intimacy  is  a 
sufficient  reason  why  I  should  retain  his  own  beautiful 
language : — 

"  Some  years  ago  in  yonder  stately  mansion  dwelt  an 
angelic  being.  She  had  all  the  accomplishments,  and  per 
formed  with  equal  ease  upon  the  piano  and  accordeon.  Ac 
customed  from  her  earliest  infancy  to  gymnastics,  in  the 
Indian  Club  and  Parallel  Bar  exercise  she  stood  unrivaled. 
Sent  to  a  fashionable  boarding-school  at  a  tender  age,  she 
received  a  diploma  for  *  manners.'  It  became  evident  to 
her  doting  parents  that  she  was  too  pure  for  this  world — 
an  earthly  exotic,  transplanted  into  one  of  the  fairest  gar 
dens  in  Oakland.  Such  was  the  gentle  Sophonisba.  It 
was  on  one  of  the  floating  palaces  which  ply  between  San 
Francisco  and  this  elegant  suburb,  that  Sophonisba  first  met 
Algeron  Montfalcon.  He  was  in  the  disguise  of  a  lowly 
deck  hand,  occasionally  alternating  his  duties  with  that  of 
a  fireman. 

"  One  of  those  sudden  reverses  of  fortune  peculiar  to  Cal 
ifornia,  resulting  chiefly  from  the  young-gentlemanly  habits 
of  gaming,  had  reduced  him  to  this  lonely  position  of  tend 
ing  fires.  If  we  may  be  permitted  to  enliven  our  painful 
narrative  by  a  play  of  vivid  fancy,  we  would  say  that  the 


THE  LOST  HEIRESS  85 

transition  from  '  poker '  to  the  furnace  was  natural.  But  we 
refrain  from  mirth.  Enough  that  he  was  hurled  from  his 
high  estate. 

"  Their  meeting  was  singularly  romantic.  On  one  occa 
sion  he  handed  her  on  board  the  boat  and  she  was  struck 
with  his  intense  and  noble  bearing.  In  the  bashful  timid 
ity  of  blushing  maidenhood  she  forgot  that  she  had  left  a 
magnificent  reticule  upon  the  wharf.  The  boat  had  already 
proceeded  twenty  feet.  Fired  by  her  distress  the  noble  Al- 
geron  instantly  sprang  overboard,  regained  the  treasure,  and 
laid  it  dripping  at  her  feet.  The  passengers  who  witnessed 
this  self-sacrificing  act  instantly  burst  into  tears.  '  Unex 
ceptional  creature  ! '  cried  Algeron,  kneeling  distractedly  at 
her  feet,  ( behold  me  here  without  an  introduction.  Eti 
quette  was  made  for  slaves  ! '  *  You  do  me  proud,  fair  youth,' 
said  Sophonisba  with  an  effort  recalling  her  '  manners,'  then 
relapsing  into  gushing  girlish  playfulness,  she  struck  him 
over  the  head  with  her  parasol.  This  characteristic  act 
proved  that  from  thence  their  hearts  were  one.  Such  is  in 
consistent  girlhood. 

"  They  kept  company  for  some  time.  But  the  strange 
guardian  of  the  peerless  young  girl  was  adamantine.  Con 
scious  of  the  immense  wealth  in  which  he  daily  rolled,  could 
it  be  expected  he  could  look  upon  the  gay  and  bold  yet  hon 
est  Algeron  with  sentiments  of  affection  and  esteem  ?  No  ! 
Society  forbids  it.  Tearing  her  from  the  soft  seclusion  of 
Oakland,  he  announced  his  intention  to  proceed  with  her 
forthwith  to  San  Francisco.  Plunged  in  the  giddy  whirl  of 
fashion  and  aristocracy  she  would  forget  the  past.  Rash 
thought !  Could  she  even  in  the  delights  of  a  Fireman's 
Ball,  the  refined  melodrama  of  Maguire's  or  the  epicurean 
sensations  of  Peter  Job's  forget  the  past  ?  Ah,  no  ! 

"  They  embarked  on  the  last  boat  for  San  Francisco.  The 
night  was  appropriately  dark  and  the  heavens  seemed  to  frown 


86  THE  LOST  HEIRESS 

on  the  rash  father.  The  fog  came  in  heavily.  A  group  of 
anxious  passengers  gathered  around  the  captain,  hut  the  bold 
and  fearless  man  —  recognizing  only  the  stern  calls  of  duty 
—  pushed  boldly  forth  in  the  stream,  himself  guiding  the 
helm.  He  would  make  San  Francisco  or  perish  in  the 
attempt.  A  sentiment  of  awe  and  admiration  thrilled  the 
passengers.  The  gentlemanly  clerk  was  cool.  The  bar 
keeper  remained  at  his  post.  Such  was  the  influence  of 
discipline. 

"  The  boat  neared  the  channel.     She  struck  on  the  Bar ! 

"  There  was  the  wildest  excitement ;  many  of  the  passen 
gers  rushed  frantically  to  the  barkeeper,  and  ordered  mixed 
drinks  and  fancy  liquors  in  the  unendurable  agony  of  the 
moment.  The  young  barkeeper,  for  an  instant  placed  in  the 
most  responsible  position,  never  shrank  from  his  duty.  But 
two  counterfeit  halves  were  taken  in  that  unguarded  rush. 

"  On  the  dock  were  two  figures  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms  —  Algeron  and  Sophonisba.  His  face  was  turned 
toward  the  distant  lights  of  San  Francisco.  He  quoted 
Byron  with  ease  and  elegance,  as  the  storm  rose  about 
them.  She  sang  in  low  tones  the  maddening  and  popular 
air,  '  Ever  of  Thee  ! '  Suddenly  the  fog  obscured  them  from 
view. 

"  The  affluent  father  of  the  peerless  Sophonisba  had  been 
one  of  the  first  to  participate  in  the  rush  to  the  bar.  The 
excitement  passed,  he  thought  of  his  daughter.  Well  may- 
est  thou  think  of  her  now  —  purse-proud  aristocrat !  He 
rushed  through  the  magnificent  ladies'  saloon.  She  was 
not  there. 

"  In  frantic  agony  he  again  rushed  on  deck.  What  did  his 
eyes  behold  —  and  what  riveted  the  gaze  of  the  awe-stricken 
passengers  generally ! 

"  A  boat  was  drifting  out  in  the  bay.  In  the  stern  sheets 
were  two  figures  —  Algeron,  holding  the  American  Flag  in 
one  hand,  and  Sophonisba  leaning  upon  his  arm  in  the 


THE  LOST  HEIRESS  87 

favorite  attitude  of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty.  A  blue  light  was 
burning  in  the  bow  and  stern.  They  drifted  gradually  from 
the  view.  The  purse-proud  aristocrat  sank  senseless  on  the 
deck! 

"  They  were  never  seen  afterward !  Whether  they  drifted 
ashore  on  the  wild  promontory  of  Gibbon's  Point  and  were 
instantly  sacrificed  by  the  natives  of  that  locality ;  whether 
they  were  cast  away  upon  the  rocky  fastnesses  of  Goat  Is 
land  ;  whether  they  were  sucked  in  the  eddies  of  Mission 
Creek,  or  whether  they  were  fired  into  by  some  chivalrous 
Custom-House  officer,  exasperated  at  the  sight  of  that  glo 
rious  flag  and  its  noble  defender,  has  never  been  known.  It 
is  said,  however,  that  the  youth  and  beauty  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  walking  down  the  elegant  and  enchanting  promenade 
of  Meigg's  Wharf,  sometimes  hear  the  delicious  strains  of 
'  Ever  of  Thee ! '  borne  upon  the  night  wind." 


THE  COUNTESS1 

I  BLUSHED  just  then  as  I  wrote  that  word. 

I  glanced  furtively  over  my  desk  toward  that  one  dear 
woman  whom  it  was  my  privileged  happiness  to  feed  and 
clothe,  and  turned  abashed  from  the  reproachful  spectacle 
of  the  little  stockings  and  shoes  upon  the  hearth.  Heed 
me  not,  wife  !  Spin  and  weave,  0  thou  pensive  Arachne, 
while  I  still  unravel  this  tangled  web  of  my  past  life  and 
count  its  lost  and  useless  stitches.  Sleep  on,  O  Adolphus, 
my  latest  born,  nor  move  restlessly  in  thy  slumbers.  Better 
the  pangs  of  colic  than  the  stings  of  remorse.  Happily  mayst 
thou  never  know  the  day  when  Godfrey's  Cordial  shall  no 
longer  bring  balm  to  thy  spirit,  and  paragoric  cease  to  soothe 
thy  repose. 

It  was  twenty  years  ago  this  night.  I  was  returning 
from  boarding-school.  I  was  sixteen,  and  shy.  I  had  that 
usual  tendency  of  young  bipeds  to  run  to  legs  and  neck  and 
bill.  My  form  was  gotten  up  with  distinct  reference  to  my 
retiring  disposition  —  so  economic  were  its  principles  that 
I  slipped  almost  noiselessly  through  the  crowded  cars  of  the 
H.  B.  E-.  Road  and  slid  into  a  seat  beside  a  portly  man  with 
whiskers.  There  was  a  lady  in  the  seat  opposite  to  me. 
There  is  one  in  this  story.  They  are  identical. 

I  drew  a  book  from  the  pocket  of  my  sack  and  abandoned 
myself  to  intellectual  delights.  I  do  not  remember  the 
name  of  the  work.  I  had  bought  it  from  a  book  peddler, 
chiefly,  I  think,  on  account  of  the  picture  of  a  Countess 
which  adorned,  while  it  explained,  the  title-page.  The  story 
referred  to  a  Countess.  I  believe  that  her  husband,  not- 
i  Golden  Era,  March  24,  1861. 


THE  COUNTESS  89 

withstanding  his  high  social  position,  was  addicted  to  high 
way  robbery  and  murder.  A  young  man  only  eighteen 
years  of  age  had  been  enticed  into  his  den.  He  was  re 
leased  by  the  Countess,  who  fell  passionately  in  love  with 
him.  As  she  knocked  off  the  fetters  from  his  graceful 
limbs  (having  previously  removed  three  obstacles,  occasion 
ally  alluded  to  throughout  the  work  as  "  minions,"  with  her 
"  trusty  steel "),  she  gazed  on  his  ingenuous  features  with 
an  expression  of  tender  admiration  and  regard,  and  suddenly 
shrieked  aloud :  "  Away,  womanish  timidity  and  shame  ! 
Know,  then,  0  Rudolph,  't  is  thee  I  love !  thee  for  whom 
I  live  and  die."  And  immediately  sank  fainting  upon  his 
breast ! 

When  I  had  reached  this  thrilling  climax,  I  sighed 
deeply  and  closed  my  eyes  to  allow  my  soul  to  dwell  freely 
on  the  passionate  picture,  and  to  permit  my  lips  to  murmur 
again  and  again  the  touching  and  elevated  sentiments  of  the 
Countess.  When  I  had  opened  my  eyes  again,  I  perceived 
the  sigh  had  attracted  the  attention  of  my  companion,  who 
turned  her  face  toward  me,  and  our  glances  met. 

I  had  a  dreadful  trick  then,  which  I  have  not  yet  gotten 
over,  of  staring  at  people.  It  may  have  been  an  affecting 
relic  of  that  touching,  childish  reliance  in  physiognomy 
which  we  so  speedily  outgrow.  It  came  naturally  to  me  — 
but  it  may  have  been  annoying  to  others.  How  long  I  sub 
jected  the  lady  to  this  mild  impertinence  I  cannot  say.  But 
I  suddenly  became  aware  that  she  was  smiling  encouragingly, 
at  which  I  blushed  violently.  In  the  hope  of  doing  some 
thing  natural,  and  half  mechanically,  I  extended  my  book 
with  a  bow.  As  her  thin,  dexterous  fingers  received  the 
courtesy,  and  turned  carelessly  over  the  leaves,  I  finished  the 
rest  of  my  stare.  She  was  quite  pretty  and  young.  Her  lips, 
perhaps,  were  rather  thin,  so  thin  that  when  she  laughed 
they  drew  up  over  her  white  teeth,  and  showed  another  red 
lip  above  them.  This  peculiarity,  with  her  black  eyes  and 


90  THE  COUNTESS 

white  face  a  little  squared  at  the  lower  angles,  made  her 
look  mysterious  and  foreign.  Her  voice  was  low  and  musi 
cally  soft. 

She  handed  me  the  book  in  return,  with  another  smile. 
I  accepted  both  timidly.  As  I  reopened  the  pages  of  my 
interesting  romance  I  discovered,  immediately  below  the 
thrilling  prison  scene,  a  few  words  in  pencil.  Again  the 
blood  rushed  to  my  cheeks  as  I  read  the  following :  — 

"  I  am  an  unhappy  woman,  flying  from  a  brutal  husband. 
I  read  sympathy  in  your  thrilling  glances.  You  are  noble 
as  you  are  handsome.  Can  you  not  sit  beside  me  ?  " 

What  young  man,  oppressed  with  a  doubt  of  his  looks, 
could  resist  that  latter  adjective? —  Glowingly  I  raised 
my  eyes  to  hers.  Her  lashes  were  cast  down ;  she  raised 
them  suddenly  with  a  glance,  and  again  settled  the  fringed 
lids  demurely.  My  brain  swam  round  and  round.  I  found 
myself  repeating  the  beautiful  expressions  of  the  robber's 
wife.  I  looked  over  to  her  companion.  He  was  gazing  out 
of  the  window.  I  shuddered  as  if  with  cold,  and  closed 
the  window.  As  I  expected,  he  looked  at  me  with  a  wrath 
ful  expression.  I  apologized,  but  "draughts  —  bronchial 
affections,  —  would  change  seats,"  etc.  The  black-bearded 
man  smiled  and  arose.  Unutterable  bliss !  I  slid  beside 
the  lady. 

We  drifted  into  conversation.  She  was  oppressed  by 
bashfulness ;  what  would  I  think  of  her  ?  What  could  I 
think  of  her  —  Ah,  Madam  ! 

In  proportion  as  she  appeared  reserved,  I  grew  bold.  I 
ventured  to  cross  my  legs,  and  even  reknotted  the  black 
ribbon  of  my  Byron  collar  with  greater  ease  and  graceful 
ness.  Overcome  by  my  subdued,  yet  gallant,  manner,  she 
related  her  painful  history. 

I  cannot  remember  it  all.  In  the  long  retrospect  of 
the  past  I  fear  it  is  somewhat  mixed  with  the  fiction  of  the 
Countess  and  Rudolph.  I  knew  only  that  she  was  flying 


THE  COUNTESS  91 

from  one  whom  she  did  not  love ;  that  she  feared  her  late 
companion  was  a  spy  in  the  service  of  her  husband.  That 
she  was  unhappy  and  lone,  until  she  saw  a  face  that  she  — 

Oh,  dear  me ! 

We  dashed  under  a  long  bridge,  and  its  darkness  favored 
a  bold  design,  which  I  had  been  framing  for  the  last  five 
minutes.  I  possessed  myself  of  her  small  hand.  I  pressed 
it.  The  pressure  was  returned.  I  raised  her  glove  respect 
fully  to  my  lips.  When  we  dashed  out  into  the  world 
again,  I  felt  distraught  and  changed.  It  was  like  closing 
the  pages  of  that  thrilling  romance. 

By  degrees  day  changed  to  twilight  and  twilight  to 
darkness.  In  the  partial  gloom,  her  beautiful  head  sank  on 
my  shoulder.  I  whispered  something  to  her,  in  an  agitated 
voice.  Her  reply  was,  "  Anywhere  with  thee  —  't  is  thee 
alone  I  love  !  "  —  or  words  to  that  effect.  I  started,  the 
words  were  so  like  the  Countess. 

The  conductor  approached  to  collect  the  fare.  I  fumbled 
in  my  pocket  nervously.  I  had  but  enough  to  pay  my  own 
fare  —  all  that  was  left  of  my  scanty  pittance.  How  could 
I  be  her  moneyless  protector!  With  feminine  delicacy 
she  slipped  a  purse  into  my  hand,  and  smiled  sweetly.  I 
blushed  as  I  opened  the  purse.  It  was  filled  with  bank 
bills —  they  were  all  large  denominations.  I  paid  the  fare. 
She  accepted  the  change,  but  begged  I  would  take  charge 
of  the  purse  during  the  rest  of  the  journey.  I  appreciated 
her  ladylike  delicacy,  I  gazed  fondly  upon  her.  She  was  a 
real  Countess ! 

The  train  still  sped  on,  and  station  after  station  was 
passed.  We  were  to  proceed  as  fast  as  steam  could  carry  us 
—  to  Philadelphia  and  thence  to  St.  Louis.  I  had  settled 
in  my  mind  that  I  would  dispatch  a  letter,  at  New  York,  to 
my  expectant  parents,  bidding  them  farewell — stating 
vaguely  that  I  was  in  the  hands  of  Love  and  Destiny.  In 
the  mean  time,  at  each  station,  I  procured  little  luxuries 


92  THE   COUNTESS 

for  her,  recklessly,  with  her  own  money,  encouraged  by  her 
gratefulness  at  these  attentions,  and  giving  her  regularly  the 
change.     At  Poughkeepsie  a  singular  event  took  place. 
Weave  and  spin,  0  Arachne  !     Sleep  on,  0  Adolphus ! 

She  wanted  a  railway  rug,  to  keep  her  small  feet  warm. 
I  would  have  preferred,  of  course,  that  they  should  have 
nestled  near  my  own,  as  they  had  done  for  the  last  half- 
hour.  But  her  wishes  were  paramount,  and  —  it  was  her 
own  money.  I  ran  to  a  store  near  the  station.  I  procured 
the  rug  and  handed  the  clerk  a  $50  bill,  the  smallest  de 
nomination  in  the  purse.  It  was  on  the  Poughkeepsie 
Bank.  I  rolled  up  the  rug  and  was  reentering  the  car, 
when  a  hand  was  laid  upon  my  shoulder.  I  turned.  It 
was  the  clerk,  breathless  with  running. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  will  you  step  back  with  me  a  moment 
to  the  store  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  make  haste,  we  have  but  five  minutes  before 
the  train  starts." 

We  reached  the  store ;  the  proprietor  was  at  the  door.  A 
silence  ensued,  during  which  he  closed  the  door,  and  care 
fully  reproduced  the  $50  bill  and  handed  it  to  me.  "  That 's 
a  counterfeit  bill,  sir  ! " 

I  looked  at  him  with  one  of  my  long,  honest  stares, 
which  made  him  look  aside  a  moment  and  blush  as  I 
thought,  and  then  took  out  my  purse.  I  handed  him  an 
other  bill,  amid  a  profound  silence,  while  I  looked  haughtily 
around. 

"  That  is  like  the  other,  and  counterfeit,  too ! "  he  re 
plied  after  a  moment's  survey. 

I  hastily  unrolled  the  bills  on  the  counter.  They  were 
all  on  the  Poughkeepsie  Bank ! 

"  They  are  not  mine  —  that  is,"  I  said  hurriedly  —  "I 
can  explain  all  in  a  few  moments,"  and  I  started  toward  the 
door.  He  anticipated  me  in  a  moment,  and  stood  before  me. 

I  felt  alarmed.     I  could  not  as  a  gentleman  mention  the 


THE  COUNTESS  93 

name  of  the  lady,  —  in  fact  I  did  n't  know  it ;  but  I  begged 
that  one  of  the  gentlemen  would  accompany  me  to  the  sta 
tion,  and — 

"  The  cars  are  gone  already/'  said  the  clerk,  "  and  here 

is  Mr. ,  Cashier,  and  Mr. ,  of  the  Town  police 

force." 

I  had  a  long  conversation  with  Mr.  ,  Cashier  of  the 

Poughkeepsie  Bank,  —  to  whom  as  a  gentleman  and  man 
of  gallantry  I  secretly  confided  my  troubles.  In  company 

with  Mr. ,  of  the  Town  police  force,  I  sat  down  and 

wrote  that  letter  to  my  parents,  but  altered  the  names  of 
the  parties  in  whose  hands  I  had  fallen.  The  next  day  my 
paternal  guardian  arrived  from  New  York  in  company  with 
the  gentleman  with  black  whiskers  who  had  been  the  com 
panion  of  the  lady,  and  probable  spy  of  her  husband.  The 
gentleman  with  black  whiskers  identified  me  at  once,  and 
corroborated  my  statement  to  the  Cashier.  I  found  out 

afterwards  that  he  was  Detective ;  the  lady  was  —  not 

a  Countess. 


THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND1 

A   STORY    OF   TO-DAY 
PART   ONE 

IT  was  a  clear  night  in  midsummer.  The  streets  of  San 
Francisco  were  deserted,  and  wore  that  aspect  of  wind-swept 
loneliness  peculiar  to  a  climate  which  a  local  press  wildly 
imagined  to  be  Italian.  A  few  dissipated  losels  were  devi 
ously  making  their  way  home  by  the  light  of  the  gas-lamps 
that  nickered  tremulously,  and  of  the  stars  that  high  up  in 
the  breezy  heavens  winked  incessantly,  as  though  they 
were  inclined  to  shut  their  eyes  on  this  and  a  good  many 
other  naughty  exhibitions  of  the  wicked  metropolis.  In 
fact,  it  was  such  a  night  as  the  devil  might  be  popularly 
supposed  to  be  abroad;  though  why  he,  more  than  we, 
should  prefer  such  exposure  to  an  easy -chair  and  a  sparkling 
fire  has,  I  believe,  never  been  clearly  demonstrated. 

From  the  window  of  a  brilliantly  lighted  apartment  in 
one  of  the  fashionable  thoroughfares,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spar- 
rowhawk  looked  upon  the  night.  They  had  been  married 
but  a  twelve-month.  Each  being  poor  and  obviously  un 
fitted  for  the  responsibilities  of  wedlock,  their  courtship  had 
met  with  such  strenuous  opposition  from  their  respective 
friends  as  to  result,  as  usual,  in  a  speedy  marriage.  Mr. 
Sparrowhawk  met  the  difficulties  of  his  new  condition  with 
characteristic  philosophy.  Returning  from  the  bridal  trip, 
as  he  handed  his  last  half-dollar  to  the  porter,  the  loving 
bride  ventured  to  ask  the  momentous  question :  — 

"  On  what  are  we  to  live  1 " 

1  Californian,  April  19,  May  6,  1865. 


THE   PETKOLEUM  FIEND  95 

"  On  others,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

Hiding  her  white  crape  bonnet  in  his  bosom  the  blush 
ing  girl  expressed  herself  satisfied.  Through  all  the  finan 
cial  troubles  of  the  honeymoon  she  proved  herself  a  worthy 
helpmeet.  Her  husband's  old  creditors  looked  with  dis 
may  as  they  found  the  delicate  tact  and  firm  instincts  of 
the  subtle  sex  added  to  the  masculine  audacity  of  the  male 
Sparrowhawk.  Nor  was  this  all.  Her  jewelry,  purchased 
on  credit,  she  freely  sacrificed.  "These  trinkets  are  not 
mine,"  reasoned  that  affectionate  creature,  "  but  his  "  j  and 
she  saw  them  pawned  without  a  struggle. 

The  sagacious  reader  will  readily  imagine  from  the  fore 
going  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  were  not  engaged  in  sentimental 
contemplation  of  the  heavens.  The  necessity  of  evading 
the  claims  of  an  impending  creditor  was  just  then  under 
discussion,  and  a  natural  impulse  had  brought  them  both  to 
the  window,  as  if  to  find  some  solution  of  the  financial 
question  outside. 

"  It  does  seem,"  said  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  deliberately,  "  as 
if  the  very  devil  —  " 

A  little  scream  from  his  wife  arrested  him  here,  and  the 
rest  of  his  profane  reflection  was  lost.  And  well  might 
Mrs.  S.  scream.  As  she  turned  away  from  the  window 
with  a  slight  contraction  of  her  pretty  brows  she  suddenly 
came  upon  a  stranger  standing  upright  in  the  middle  of  the 
flpor. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  intruder,  blandly,  "  but 
you  seem  to  have  been  so  pleasantly  occupied  as  not  to 
hear  my  knock.  May  I  hope  that  I  have  also  spared  you 
the  trouble  of  opening  the  door  for  me  ?  " 

He  was  a  nice  little  bald-headed  old  gentleman,  in  an 
evening  dress  of  black,  neatly  gloved  and  booted.  Perhaps 
his  instep  was  somewhat  too  high,  and  he  moved  gingerly 
as  if  his  boots  hurt  him.  But  otherwise  he  was  evidently 
such  a  parti  as  we  are  in  the  habit  of  meeting  every  even- 


96  THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND 

ing  in  the  lobby  of  the  opera  or  at  social  gatherings.  Mrs. 
S.  recovered  herself  first  —  with  the  readiness  of  her  sex  — 
and  begged  him  to  be  seated. 

"  My  intrusion  will  seem  the  more  pardonable,  or  unpar 
donable,  rather  let  me  say,"  he  added,  with  an  apologetic 
wave  of  the  hand  toward  Mrs.  S.,  "  when  I  state  that  this 
interruption  of  a  conjugal  tete-a-tete  is  occasioned  by  busi 
ness.  Business  with  Mr.  Sparrowhawk." 

Mrs.  S.,  a  little  mollified,  rose  as  if  to  depart,  but  the 
old  gentleman  skipped  forward  with  a  deprecating  gesture : 
"Pray,  don't  go  —  oblige  me.  Whatever  the  ungallant 
opinion  of  the  rest  of  mankind,  permit  me  to  say  that  I 
always  found  your  lovely  sex  of  invaluable  service  in  all 
my  business  arrangements.  Besides,"  he  added  a  little 
hastily,  as  if  to  cover  up  an  inadvertence,  "  what  concerns 
your  husband's  welfare  concerns  you." 

Still  more  mollified,  and,  I  grieve  to  say,  even  swallow 
ing  this  little  bit  of  moral  chaff  with  the  rest,  Mrs.  S.  re 
sumed  her  seat  gracefully.  Where  is  the  woman  who  could 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  such  a  compliment  ?  She  may  doubt 
the  tribute  to  her  beauty ;  the  sonnet  to  her  amiability ; 
but  her  business  qualifications,  never  ! 

"  Between  men  of  business,"  continued  the  old  gentle 
man,  turning  to  the  husband,  "  a  few  words  suffice.  You 
are  a  mining  secretary  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

Sparrowhawk  had  an  office  downtown,  the  door  whereof 
was  ingeniously  decorated  with  the  titles  of  some  twenty  or 
thirty  companies  which  had  no  other  existence.  Here  he 
regularly  read  the  papers,  and  published  lists,  selected  at 
random  from  the  directory,  of  delinquent  stockholders.  It 
certainly  was  not  necessary  for  the  old  gentleman  to  twit 
him  with  that. 

"  And  write  for  the  papers  ?  " 

A  slight  glow  suffused  the  cheek  of  Sparrowhawk !    We 


THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND  97 

all  have  our  weaknesses.  Here  was  a  young  man,  of  fine 
predatory  instincts  and  financial  abilities,  actually  pleased 
with  the  accusation  of  literary  effort.  He  answered  quickly 
in  the  affirmative,  and  asked  the  stranger  if  he  had  ever 
read  his  articles  signed  "Brutus." 

"  Or  his  <  Monody  on  the  Death  of  an  Infant '  ?  "  chimed 
in  Mrs.  S. 

«  No  —  no,"  replied  the  stranger,  with  a  sudden  display 
of  nervous  energy ;  "  that  is  —  yes ;  but  I  shall  require 
your  talents  in  both  capacities.  Now  attend  to  me  for  a 
few  moments.  Observe  this,  if  you  please,"  and  he  drew 
from  his  breast-pocket  a  phial  of  amber-colored  liquid  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Sparrowhawk. 

Mr.  S.  looked  at  the  phial  dubiously.  Mrs.  S.,  true  to 
her  sex's  instinct,  admired  the  color. 

"  Smell  it." 

Sparrowhawk  removed  the  cork  and  sniffed  at  the  fluid. 
Spite  of  its  delicate  color  it  had  an  abominable  sulphurous 
stench.  "  Petroleum !  "  he  ejaculated. 

"  Exactly  so.  That 's  my  business.  I  make  it.  Say  the 
word  and  you  shall  be  my  agent.  You  shall  puff  it  and 
sell  it.  Salary,  twenty  thousand  for  the  first  year  and 
commissions.  Agreement  for  three  years." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sparrowhawk  gasped  for  breath.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  stammered  Mr.  Sparrowhawk,  "  but  did  I 
understand  you  to  say  you  made  it  ?  I  thought  it  was 
found  —  that  is,  discovered  in  wells  —  you  know  —  holes !  " 
And  the  poor  fellow  glanced  uneasily  at  the  stranger  and 
back  again  to  his  wife. 

But  that  noble  young  woman  did  not  lose  her  self-pos 
session.  "  Of  course  the  gentleman  said  he  made  it,"  she 
replied  somewhat  pettishly  ;  "  and  what  if  he  does  ?  There's 
no  great  harm  in  that.  What  if  he  keeps  a  quantity  on 
hand  —  more  than  he  wants  for  use  ?  —  " 

"  For  use,"  said  the  stranger,  bowing  delightedly. 


98  THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND 

"Or Fuel!"  said  Mrs.  S. 

"Or  Fuel,"  repeated  the  little  old  gentleman,  smiling 
and  rubbing  his  hands,  as  he  gazed  at  the  bright  eyes  and 
excited  color  of  the  pretty  Mrs.  Sparrowhawk. 

"  Or,  what  if  he  should  want  a  smart  young  man  to  de 
vote  himself  to  his  interests  at  a  large  salary ;  there  's  no 
harm  in  that,"  continued  Mrs.  S. 

"No  harm  in  that,"  repeated  the  overjoyed  old  gentle 
man. 

"Or,  if  he  wanted  him  to  sign  an  agreement  ?  " 

"  An  agreement !  "  repeated  that  venerable  echo. 

"Why,  he  'd  be  a  fool  if  he  didn't,"  was  Mrs.  Sparrow- 
hawk's  somewhat  ungrammatical  climax. 

Poor  Sparrowhawk  gazed  with  open  mouth  at  the  mys 
terious  visitor  and  his  ally.  Before  he  could  find  breath 
to  speak,  the  old  gentleman  had  drawn  a  document  from 
his  pocket  and  laid  it  before  him.  His  own  wife  brought 
him  a  pen  already  dipped  in  ink. 

"  Sign  !  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"Sign!"  repeated  Mrs.  S. 

Sparrowhawk  took  up  the  pen  irresolutely,  and  hesitated. 
A  struggle  took  place  in  his  bosom  and  his  better  genius 
prevailed.  He  laid  down  the  pen.  "Give  me  a  half-year's 
salary  in  advance,"  he  asked  firmly. 

"  Done,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

Sparrowhawk  signed.  At  the  same  moment  an  earth 
quake  rattled  the  shelves  and  jarred  the  whole  house. 

"The  manufactory  is  at  work,"  quietly  remarked  the  old 
gentleman. 

Another  shock,  stronger  than  before,  caused  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sparrowhawk  to  rush  wildly  to  the  door.  When  their 
alarm  had  subsided  they  turned  to  their  mysterious  visitor, 
but  he  had  disappeared. 


The  manufactory  is  at  work. 


THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND  99 

PAKT   TWO 

Nearly  three  years  of  unexampled  prosperity  had  flown 
over  the  head  of  Mr.  Sparrowhawk,  duly  authorized  agent 
of  the  "  Original  Petroleum  Co."  The  company  was  in  a 
flourishing  condition.  It  was  true  that  the  superintendent 
and  agent  had  not  met  since  the  mysterious  interview  we 
have  recorded,  but  this  circumstance  did  not  seem  to  inter 
rupt  business.  There  were  certain  unfailing  wells  belong 
ing  to  the  company,  one  or  two  manufactories  in  full  blast, 
and  a  central  office  over  which  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  presided. 
How  he  kept  his  books,  or  to  whom  he  was  responsible,  was 
nobody's  business.  None  of  the  stock  was  in  market,  and 
the  stockholders  were  unknown.  Sharp  people  whispered, 
"foreign  capital";  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  smiled  significantly, 
but  did  not  deny  it. 

In  fact,  he  had  grown  exceedingly  opulent  and  respect 
able.  His  name  stood  foremost  on  all  subscription  lists ; 
he  was  director  of  half  a  dozen  charitable  institutions  ;  and 
Mrs.  S.  was  the  President  of  a  Ladies'  Christian  Commis 
sion  for  providing  wounded  soldiers  in  hospital  with  Fox's 
"  Martyrs  "  and  Edwards's  "  Sermons."  Mr.  S.  had  a  pew 
in  a  fashionable  church.  He  rarely  wrote  poetry  now,  and 
only  of  an  inferior  quality.  But  if  riches  enervated  his 
muse  there  was  compensation  in  the  truth  that  criticism  is 
always  lenient  to  prosperity.  That  a  man  with  thirty  thou 
sand  a  year  should  write  any  poetry  at  all  was  enough  for 
society  to  be  thankful  for. 

But  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  had  of  late  been  subject  to  fits  of 
gloomy  despondency  and  abstraction,  and  as  the  third  year 
drew  near  its  close  he  grew  quite  haggard  and  wan.  He 
would  shut  himself  up  for  days  together  studying  his  agree 
ment,  which,  like  most  documents  of  a  similar  nature,  can 
be  made,  by  continued  perusal,  to  exhibit  any  meaning  you 
choose  to  give  it.  Often  in  the  midst  of  gay  company  he 


100  THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND 

would  lapse  into  a  sullen  silence,  and  once,  at  a  dinner-party, 
given  at  his  palatial  residence,  the  conversation  turning 
upon  the  late  petroleum  conflagration  in  one  of  the  Eastern 
cities,  an  unlucky  guest,  who  was  giving  a  graphic  account 
of  the  burning  alive  of  some  unhappy  wretches  in  the 
streets,  was  shocked  by  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  fainting  dead 
away  in  his  chair.  Like  Lady  Macbeth  on  a  similar  occa 
sion,  Mrs.  Sparrowhawk  undertook  the  disagreeable  duty  of 
apologizing  to  the  guests.  Unlike  that  somewhat  overrated 
Scotchwoman,  she  did  it  gracefully,  and  did  not  commit  the 
egregious  blunder  of  sending  the  guests  away  before  they 
had  finished  their  dinner  and  thus  giving  them  the  oppor 
tunity  of  indulging  in  mischievous  remarks.  It  was  ob 
served  after  this  that  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  avoided  fires,  even 
on  the  coldest  evenings,  and  seemed  to  shun  lights  and 
matches  as  if  he  had  been  tinder. 

Besides  his  town  residence,  he  had  a  magnificent  country- 
house  erected  on  the  oil  lands  of  the  company,  and  located 
over  one  of  the  deepest  wells  in  that  region.  The  house 
was  warmed  by  petroleum  fires  and  lighted  by  its  vapor. 
Here  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  had  invited  a  number  of  guests  on 
the  occasion  of  his  retiring  from  the  agency  —  an  event 
which  was  to  be  duly  celebrated.  A  select  and  brilliant 
circle  of  admirers  and  friends  of  all  classes  and  conditions 
—  clergymen,  bankers,  brokers,  editors,  and  doctors  —  all 
of  them  more  or  less  interested  in  petroleum  —  gathered  on 
that  day.  A  remarkable  and  peculiar  gayety  held  possession 
of  the  host  and  hostess.  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  had  never 
talked  more  ably.  Mrs.  S.  had  never  shone  more  brilliantly 
at  the  head  of  her  festive  board.  An  editor,  who  was 
seated  on  her  left,  took  that  occasion  to  whisper  in  her  ear 
something  about  the  " Isles  of  Greece"  and  "Burning 
Sappho,"  but  was  chagrined  that  his  fair  companion  did  not 
blush,  but  only  turned  pale  and  shuddered.  As  these 
physiological  effects  were  not  inconsequent  to  so  atrocious  a 


THE  PETROLEUM  FIEND  101 

pun,  the  other  guests  took  no  further  notice  of  them.  The 
seat  of  honor  on  the  right  of  Mr.  Sparrowhawk  was  occu 
pied  by  a  nice  little  bald-headed  old  gentleman,  who,  by  the 
power  of  his  conversation,  had  fascinated  the  whole  assem 
bly,  and  who,  as  an  apparently  old  friend  of  the  host  and 
hostess,  assisted  in  dispensing  the  honors  of  the  house.  It 
was  the  little  old  gentleman  who  proposed  a  visit  to  the 
lower  regions,  and  undertook  to  conduct  a  number  of  se 
lected  guests  through  one  of  the  oil  shafts  and  brought  them 
back  afterward,  smelling  strongly  of  benzoine.  It  was  the 
little  old  gentleman  who  also  proposed  charades  in  the  pri 
vate  theatre  attached  to  the  country-seat,  and  under  whose 
artistic  management  a  number  of  surprising  and  astonishing 
effects  were  produced.  "  Benzoine,''  "  Coal  Oil,"  and 
"  Kerosene  "  were  successively  spelled  out  by  the  company. 
But  the  final  charade,  as  the  old  gentleman  remarked,  would 
require  some  preparation,  and  would  include  some  new 
effects  which  would  astonish  them.  Selecting  his  actors 
from  the  assembled  company,  he  retired  behind  the  cur 
tain.  An  interval,  long  enough  to  enable  the  audience  to 
indulge  in  exciting  speculation,  followed,  and  then  the 
curtain  rose. 

As  the  little  old  gentleman  had  truly  prophesied,  the 
effect  was  wonderful  and  intensely  dramatic.  The  scene 
before  them  represented  a  vast  temple  brilliantly  illumi 
nated.  This  was  singularly  effected  by  a  circling  row  of 
statues  placed  on  short  pedestals  at  equal  distances  around 
the  temple  —  each  statue  gleaming  with  incandescent  bril 
liancy.  A  closer  inspection  revealed  the  fact  that  each  fig 
ure  was  represented  by  some  well-known  guest,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Sparrowhawk  occupying  a  prominent  central  position 
and  gleaming  with  almost  insupportable  lustre.  The  bland 
features  of  a  well-known  clergyman  beamed  gloriously  from 
a  conspicuous  plinth  on  the  right,  while  a  prosperous 
banker  glittered  and  scintillated  on  the  left.  A  tremend- 


102  THE   PETROLEUM  FIEND 

cms  round  of  applause  burst  from  the  audience.  Suddenly 
attention  was  directed  to  the  little  old  gentleman,  who  en 
tered  upon  the  scene  carrying  several  large  covers  like  ex 
tinguishers.  Striding  up  to  each  of  these  animated  burners, 
he,  one  by  one,  gravely  covered  them  with  an  extinguisher, 
beginning  with  the  host  and  hostess,  until  the  stage,  lately 
so  brilliant,  was  left  in  total  darkness.  A  slight  snuffy 
smell,  in  spite  of  this  precaution,  pervaded  the  theatre. 

The  spokesman  consulted  a  moment  with  the  audience, 
and  then  announced  the  word :  — 

"  Extinguisher." 

No  answer  came  from  the  stage. 

The  word  was  repeated. 

Still  no  answer.  A  little  alarmed  he  leaped  upon  the 
stage  and  lifted  the  extinguisher  which  covered  Mr.  Spar- 
rowhawk.  A  heap  of  discolored  ashes  with  a  strong  pe 
troleum  odor  was  all  that  lay  underneath.  He  repeated 
the  experiment  with  Mrs.  Sparrowhawk  and  the  remaining 
statues,  but  with  the  same  result.  Diligent  inquiry  was 
made  for  the  little  old  gentleman,  but  he  was  nowhere  to 
be  found. 

As  may  be  expected,  the  guests  were  somewhat  embar 
rassed.  But  good  breeding  prevailed,  and  they  quietly  re 
turned  to  town  without  confusion.  A  little  justifiable 
indignation  was  felt  toward  the  host  and  hostess,  but  even 
that  was  tempered  by  philosophy,  and  the  most  ill-tempered 
confessed  that  but  little  better  could  be  expected  from  the 
parties. 

So  perished  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sparrowhawk.  I  am  aware 
that  this  story  has  no  moral.  Whatever  interest  it  may 
have  is  based  entirely  upon  its  merit  as  a  statement  of 
facts. 


STOEIES  FOB  LITTLE  GIRLS1 

I  HAVE  noticed  with  some  indignation  a  tendency,  in  the 
popular  stories  of  childhood,  to  give  all  the  heroic  enter 
prises  to  boys,  and  to  utterly  ignore  girls  as  adventurous 
heroines.  As  daughters  predominate  in  my  own  family,  I 
humbly  protest  against  their  being  put  off  with  such  feeble 
notoriety  as  "Cinderella"  affords  them,  or  such  doubtful 
fame  as  belongs  to  "  Little  Red  Biding  Hood."  Firmly  be 
lieving  in  the  superior  energy,  tact,  and  invention  of  the  sex, 
I  consider  the  latter  story,  of  a  wolf  deceiving  a  little  girl 
by  personating  her  grandmother,  as  the  puerile  invention  of 
some  envious  old  bachelor,  and  have  felt  a  consciousness  of 
imbecility  in  reading  it  aloud  to  young  ladies,  any  one  of 
whom  I  am  satisfied  would  have  detected  Mr.  Wolf  in  his 
first  hypocritical  sentence.  As  to  Cinderella,  we  all  know 
she  had  no  interest  except  that  conferred  on  her  by  the 
Prince.  In  point  of  fact,  "Contrary  Mary  "  seems  to  have 
been  the  only  young  lady  in  childish  fiction  who  is  recorded 
to  have  had  any  independence  of  character ;  but  even  here 
the  masculine  chronicler,  by  simply  stating  the  fact  of 
"  contrariness "  without  explanation,  unfairly  leaves  us 
to  suppose  that  it  was  of  a  purposeless  and  ineffective 
quality. 

Not  content  with  merely  lifting  my  voice  against  this  in 
justice,  I  am  convinced  that  if  I  have  any  particular  mis 
sion,  it  is  to  fill  this  void  in  the  literature  of  children.  The 
ages  have  waited  for  this  event,  and  childish  fingers,  among 
which  the  thumb  of  Jack  Homer  appears  preeminent,  point 
l  Califomian,  May  20,  1865. 


104  STORIES  FOR  LITTLE   GIRLS 

to  me  as  the  man.  I  shall  not  shrink  from  the  appointed 
task.  A  shrill  chorus  of  infantile  voices  applaud  my  reso 
lution,  and  with  fingers  trembling  with  excitement,  I  dash 
into  my  first  effort  which  is 

THE  STORY  OF  MISS  MARY  CRUSOE 
At  the  age  of  fifteen,  Miss  Mary  Crusoe  undertook  a 
voyage  to  the  South  Pacific  to  visit  her  desolate  aunt,  whose 
husband,  a  worthy  missionary,  had  lately  furnished,  in  his 
own  person,  food  and  raiment  for  the  benighted  islanders. 
As  he  did  not  survive  this  Christian  act,  Miss  Crusoe's 
aunt  sent  for  her  niece  to  relieve  her  increasing  loneliness. 
The  voyage  had  been  quite  prosperous,  but  one  day  a  terrific 
storm  came  on,  and  the  vessel  struck  on  a  rock.  Miss  Crusoe 
was  the  only  one  that  escaped.  Buoyed  up  by  her  crinoline 
on  a  monstrous  wave,  she  was  washed  on  a  desert  island 
where  she  lay  for  a  few  moments  insensible. 

When  she  recovered  her  senses,  she  rose  and  carefully 
removed  her  stockings  and  spread  them  on  a  rock  to  dry. 
For  a  moment  she  regretted  not  having  brought  a  change  with 
her  from  the  ship — but  a  sense  of  gratitude  to  Providence 
for  her  deliverance  checked  the  foolish  thought.  She  then 
made  a  tour  of  the  island,  meeting  only  a  few  crabs  on  the 
beach,  who  turned  quite  red  at  the  spectacle  of  her  bare 
little  ankles,  and  walked  away  holding  their  claws  before 
their  eyes.  But  Miss  Crusoe  did  not  despair.  Finding 
one  of  the  ship's  sails  on  the  beach,  she  drew  a  housewife 
from  her  bosom,  and  taking  a  needle  and  scissors  therefrom, 
in  a  very  short  time  made  and  fitted  to  her  pretty  figure  a 
coarse  but  neat  morning  wrapper,  which  she  fastened  around 
her  waist  with  the  bolt  ropes.  Having  lost  her  comb  in 
the  surf,  her  back  hair  came  down.  A  rusty  spike  which 
she  picked  from  a  portion  of  the  wreck  served  her  for  a  hair 
pin,  and  the  seaweed  which  still  clung  to  it  added  ornament 
to  the  coiffure.  As  Miss  Mary  glanced  at  her  reflection  in 


STORIES  FOR  LITTLE  GIRLS  105 

a  pool  of  water  beside  her,  a  pleasurable  blush  mantled  her 
cheek  at  the  becoming  effect  of  her  costume.  But  she  sighed 
at  the  thought  that  there  was  no  other  human  eye  to  be 
hold  it. 

With  a  broom  made  of  dried  boughs  and  leaves  fastened 
to  a  piece  of  bamboo,  Miss  Mary  swept  away  the  sand  from 
the  leeward  side  of  a  large  rock  so  as  to  form  a  comfortable 
couch.  This  she  draped  with  fragments  of  the  old  sail,  and 
saying  her  prayers  like  a  good  girl,  laid  down  her  fair  head 
on  a  sandy  pillow,  and  presently  fell  asleep.  The  moon 
came  up,  and  touching  the  little  island  here  and  there  with 
silver  radiance,  out  of  respect  to  Miss  Mary's  modesty, 
left  her  sleeping  place  in  shadow.  The  waves  talked  in 
whispers  so  as  not  to  disturb  her,  and  the  sea-breeze 
sang  a  pleasant  lullaby.  So  passed  the  first  day  on  the 
island. 

The  next  morning,  after  a  careful  toilette  and  a  breakfast 
of  wild  grapes,  which  grew  plentifully  on  the  rocks  beside 
her,  Miss  Mary  hastened  to  the  beach.  Here  she  found  the 
sea  had  providentially  washed  ashore  from  the  wreck  the 
following  articles :  A  tea-kettle  and  canister  of  tea,  a  bottle 
of  Eau  de  Cologne,  a  set  of  crochet-needles,  a  few  pounds 
of  worsted,  some  tape,  a  guitar,  an  assortment  of  hairpins, 
and  a  box  of  matches.  (If  any  objection  be  made  to  this 
list  as  improbable,  I  point  to  the  masculine  inventory  of 
Robinson  Crusoe's  spoils  as  a  precedent.)  After  making  a 
cup  of  tea,  Miss  Mary  confessed  she  felt  better,  and  at  once 
began  the  construction  of  that  bower  which  for  years  after 
ward  formed  her  residence  on  the  island.  In  this  she  was 
assisted  only  by  her  needle,  thread,  and  scissors.  The  cli 
mate  was  miraculously  mild,  and  admitted  of  the  lightest 
material  for  building  purposes.  A  wild  kid  which  Miss 
Mary  caught  during  this  week  was  of  some  service  to  her 
as  a  household  pet;  this  family  was  afterward  increased  by 
two  canaries,  a  pet  field-mouse,  and  a  jarboe.  Not  having 


106  STORIES  FOR  LITTLE  GIRLS 

the  slightest  idea  what  this  latter  animal  may  be,  I  am 
unable  to  describe  it.  It  is  peculiar  to  desert  islands  I  am 
told. 

But  even  these  companions  failed  to  give  Miss  Mary  suit 
able  society.  Her  domestic  duties  were  growing  exceedingly 
onerous.  She  was  in  despair,  and  her  young  cheek  grew 
pale  and  thin.  One  day,  while  walking  on  the  beach  at  the 
extremity  of  the  island,  she  perceived  a  footprint  in  the 
sand.  It  was  of  a  female  gaiter  of  a  large  size,  evidently  a 
No.  10,  while  Miss  Mary  wore  a  2^,  narrow.  There  could 
be  no  mistake ;  some  other  woman  had  trodden  the  lonely 
shore.  When  Miss  Mary  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
her  surprise,  she  deliberated  calmly.  With  feminine  quick 
ness  she  reasoned  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  two  women 
to  live  on  equal  terms  together  on  a  desert  island.  Some 
one  must  dominate.  Miss  Mary,  with  a  determined  shake 
of  her  pretty  head,  made  up  her  mind  who  that  one  should 
be.  The  next  day  the  beach  was  strewn  with  fragments  of 
a  wreck,  and  she  discovered  that  an  emigrant  ship  from 
Ireland  to  Australia  had  gone  ashore  upon  the  fatal  rocks. 
Providence  again  smiled  kindly  on  Mary  Crusoe.  She  en 
countered  the  mysterious  castaway,  who  proved  to  be  a  stout 
woman  with  a  North-Country  accent.  The  astonished  Celt 
instinctively  saluted  Miss  Crusoe  as  " Missus."  This  set 
tled  the  matter.  Miss  Crusoe  engaged  her  on  board-wages, 
and  called  her  "Biddy,"  which  is  the  feminine  for  "Man 
Friday." 

The  history  of  Miss  Mary  Crusoe  from  this  point  to  her 
final  deliverance  from  the  island,  becomes  somewhat  unin 
teresting.  As  she  married  the  young  sailor  who  rescued 
her,  the  merit  of  the  story  as  a  narrative  of  purely  feminine 
adventure,  of  course,  is  lost.  She  brought  her  pets  with  her 
to  New  York,  and,  as  her  female  acquaintances  declare,  a 
good  many  foreign  airs  also.  She  stuck  up  her  nose  at  the 
best  hotels  of  that  city,  and  talked  somewhat  ostentatiously 


STORIES  FOR  LITTLE   GIRLS  107 

about  "  her  island."     For  this  reason  I  deem  it  prudent  to 
end  her  history  here. 


The  above  is  merely  a  specimen  of  what  I  expect  to  do 
in  the  way  of  filling  the  void  I  have  spoken  of.  I  propose 
hereafter  to  give  a  short  sketch  of  "  Susan  the  Giant  Killer," 
and  "  Jane  and  her  Kose  Tree."  Until  then,  I  wait  the 
recognition  of  a  grateful  juvenile  public. 


MISCELLANEOUS 
1860-1870 


SHIPS  * 

IN  the  mind  of  every  naturally  developed  boy,  there  is  a 
distinct  impression  that  fortune  is  intimately  associated 
with  the  sea,  and  a  strong  leaning  toward  ships  !  To  every 
grown-up  masculine  member  of  my  species  there  must  at 
times  occur  recollections  of  days  when  he  cut  oblong  billets 
of  wood  into  ravishing  models  of  ships,  which,  when 
launched,  had  a  common  propensity  to  keel  over,  and  con 
tinue  the  rest  of  the  voyage,  bottom  up.  Without  men 
tioning  anything  about  that  one  unparalleled  ship  which 
every  boy  has  loved  and  lost  —  I  pass  to  a  few  general  asso 
ciations  connected  with  this  subject,  of  course  altogether  un 
professional,  which  comprise  the  experience  of  a  landsman. 

The  child's  ships  :  The  ships  furtively  read  about  under 
the  desks  at  school,  and  by  the  firelight  at  dark  before  can 
dles  came.  The  ship  that  was  wrecked  so  opportunely  for 
Robinson  Crusoe,  and  the  ship  he  constructed.  Noah's  Ark. 
The  ship  of  Philip  Quarles.  The  ship  in  which  Bernardin 
de  St.  Pierre  cruelly  wrecked  poor  Virginia  (when  she  might 
just  as  well  have  been  saved)  for  the  sake  of  displaying 
that  sickly  French  sentiment  which,  thank  God,  few  chil 
dren  understand.  The  dreadful  ship  in  which  Captain  Kidd 
sailed  and  sailed.  The  ships  in  which  Sinbad  made  his 
wonderful  voyages.  The  Phantom  Ship. 

The  boy's  ships  and  the  ships  of  schools :  Argo,  Theseus, 
and  his  black  sails.  Old  Roman  galleys  with  their  many 
banks  of  oars.  The  Viking's  ditto.  High-pooped  semi-lunar 
barques  of  Columbus  and  Amerigo  Vespucci.  The  many 
galleries  and  stubby  masts  of  the  illustrations  in  Froissart's 
i  Golden  Era,  November  25,  1860. 


112  SHIPS 

"Chronicles."  Brave  old  bully  Van  Tromp's  kettle-bot 
tomed  galliots  with  Dutch  brooms  at  their  royal  mast-heads. 
The  "Fighting  Teme'raire."  The  Greek  caiques  and  the 
triangular  lateen  sails  of  the  Mediterranean.  Chinese  junks 
with  matting  sheets.  The  wicked,  rakish-looking  crescent- 
topped  ship  of  the  Algerine  corsair,  and  all  the  rest  of  that 
wonderful  fleet  which  pass  over  the  sea  of  reading,  exchang 
ing  signals  with  the  weary  schoolboy. 

In  my  character  as  landsman,  having  a  liking  —  albeit  it 
is  a  distrustful  fascination  —  for  the  deceitful  and  "  feline  " 
element,  no  alloy  enters  into  my  affection  for  the  dear  old 
ships.  Even  now  I  recognize  their  burly  cheerful  presence 
as  I  did  when  a  boy,  and  have  a  strong  inclination  to  go  up 
to  them  and  pat  their  big  sides  as  they  lie  tied  down  by 
their  noses  to  the  wharves,  even  as  I  did  then.  For  I  have 
not  entirely  gotten  over  the  idea  that  a  ship  is  endowed  with 
sentient  life  —  a  strong  and  willing  beast  of  burden  —  good- 
natured  and  lovable  in  its  very  strength.  An  incident 
which  I  once  witnessed,  which  would  in  many  have  materi 
alized  the  whole  idea,  only  seemed  to  strengthen  that  fancy  — 
a  shipwreck!  The  ship  lay  over  a  little  bight,  and  her  old 
vassal  had  her  at  a  wicked  vantage.  Every  time  the  cruel 
sea  lifted  its  merciless  white  arm  to  smite,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  ship  recoiled  in  affright,  and  again  bounded  toward 
the  shore  as  if  for  succor.  Every  curve  that  the  sweeping 
mast  described  in  the  heavens  was  the  writhing  of  agony 
and  distress ;  the  wild  tossing  of  the  hanging  yards  were  the 
outstretched  hands  of  an  expiring  swimmer ;  and  when  at 
last  the  wreck  was  complete,  and  you  could  see  only  the 
breakers  that  fought  and  wrangled  over  the  spot,  a  year 
afterward,  passing  there  at  low  tide,  the  bleached  ribs  and 
battered  skeleton,  seemed  things  to  be  put  away  and  buried 
from  the  sight  of  man  forever. 

But  there  are  two  other  incidents,  which,  impressing  me 
at  an  early  age,  may  have  formed  the  mould  to  shape  this 


SHIPS  113 

odd  fancy.     As  they  may  be  new  to  some  of  my  readers 
I  give  them  more  in  detail :  — 

The  first  was  a  strange  story  in  connection  with  a  sea 
side  village  where  I  had  been  sent  at  a  sickly,  callow  age 
to  be  preserved  in  brine.  There  had  been  a  port  of  entry 
there  once,  and  a  good  harbor  still  existed,  but  the  ships 
perhaps  for  certain  reasons  had  taken  a  dislike  to  it,  and 
persistently  went  somewhere  else.  For,  fifty  years  ago,  one 
pleasant  summer  evening,  the  inhabitants  walking  on  the 
little  break-water,  saw  a  goodly  ship  in  the  offing,  standing 
on  and  off,  till  night  fell.  The  news  of  the  ship  spread 
from  lip  to  lip,  and  great  was  the  expectation  and  surmise 
created.  At  daybreak  the  next  day  the  village  was  astir, 
and  then  everybody  saw  the  ship  with  all  sail  set  standing 
in  to  the  harbor.  She  crossed  the  bar  easily  at  about  eight 
o'clock  and  entered  the  stream.  The  harbor-master  in  his 
boat  hailed  her,  but  received  no  reply.  She  kept  her  course 
with  all  sail  set  directly  for  the  wharf.  Then  the  harbor 
master  and  some  few  others  pulled  alongside,  and,  clamber 
ing  over  the  bulwarks,  jumped  on  deck.  To  their  surprise 
it  was  vacant.  The  wheel  was  lashed  amidships,  the  run 
ning-gear  carefully  belayed,  and  everything  taut  and  sea- 
manlike.  They  went  below,  but  found  no  evidence  of  life. 
A  fire  was  burning  in  the  galley  and  a  pot  of  coffee  remain 
ing  on  the  stove.  In  the  tenantless  cabin  the  table  was 
set  apparently  for  breakfast.  Still  more  singular,  books 
and  papers,  and  all  that  might  lead  to  identification,  were 
likewise  gone.  Clothing,  bedding,  stores,  etc.,  were  still 
there.  There  were  no  evidences  of  violence ;  the  decks 
were  spotless,  the  brass  stanchions  polished,  and  everything 
neat  and  orderly  as  though  the  usual  routine  of  careful  dis 
cipline  had  been  only  interrupted  at  the  moment  of  board 
ing.  Messages  were  dispatched  to  the  nearest  shipping 
point,  and  in  the  mean  time  she  was  moored  in  the  stream 
and  a  watch  placed  on  board.  That  night  one  of  those 


114  SHIPS 

terrible  thunderstorms  peculiar  to  New  England  swept  over 
the  little  village.  Above  the  whistling  wind  and  the  crash 
of  thunder,  people  living  near  the  water's  edge  declared 
they  heard  the  rattling  of  ropes  and  creaking  of  a  windlass. 
An  old  weather-beaten  tar  who  lived  at  the  point  saw,  by 
the  aid  of  a  night-glass  and  the  flashing  of  lightning,  a  large 
ship,  with  all  sail  set,  crossing  the  bar  at  the  flood  of  the 
tide.  When  morning  dawned,  the  ship  was  gone.  Of 
course  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  believed  that  the 
ship-keepers  ran  away  with  the  mysterious  vessel  —  as  nei 
ther  ship  nor  watch  were  ever  heard  of  since ;  but  my  child 
ish  fancy  always  inclined  to  the  more  popular  belief  that 
the  ship  ran  away  with  them.  I  remember  that  often  at 
sunset  I  would  watch  the  horizon  when  the  tide  was  flood 
ing  on  the  bar  to  meet  that  other  flood  of  outgoing  crimson 
glory ;  waiting  in  the  half-fearful,  half-adventurous  hope  of 
seeing  a  mysterious  ship  standing  off  and  on,  as  in  the  olden 
time. 

The  other  is  a  waif  from  some  book  of  travels.  It  was 
an  adventure  of  some  French  Voyager.  It  might  have  been 
told  by  Dampierre,  but  I  have  forgotten.  My  gallant  French 
captain  is  a  gentleman  born,  and  they  call  him  M.  le  Comte, 
and  he  has  estates  in  Brittany,  and  has  a  commission  in  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  laced  coat,  signed  by  Louis  XIV.  He 
has  a  fine  ship,  and  a  jolly,  rollicking  crew,  and  his  officers 
are  young  men  of  family  and  honor.  He  has  gotten  up  in 
pretty  high  latitudes  for  a  Frenchman,  and  has  traced  a  line 
along  the  75th  parallel  to  be  followed  years  after  by  Parry, 
Scoresby,  Franklin,  and  Kane.  Here  they  are  beset  in  the 
pack,  and  there  they  all  stay  for  six  months.  M.  le  Comte 
frets  and  fumes.  The  crew  all  fret  and  fume.  One  or 
two  mutinies  break  out,  and  the  young  officers  have  an 
occasional  "  affair "  with  each  other  on  the  ice  behind  the 
hummocks.  Polar  hibernation  don't  agree  with  fiery  young 
Frenchmen,  and  when  one  or  two  are  on  the  point  of  com- 


SHIPS  115 

mitting  suicide  through  sheer  ennui,  a  sail  is  discovered  in 
an  open  sea  to  the  southward.  There  is  great  speculation 
made ;  she  is  signaled,  but  does  not  answer.  They  can't 
get  to  her,  though  she  apparently  hovers  near  them  for 
many  days.  At  last  the  ice  breaks  up,  and  out  fly  the 
lively  Gauls  like  peas  from  a  pod.  M.  le  Comte  steers  to  the 
southward  with  his  impetuous  brethren.  Then  the  strange 
ship  is  seen,  and  a  boat  is  dispatched  by  M.  le  Comte,  in 
charge  of  a  fiery  young  Gascon  —  a  Lieutenant.  The 
strange  ship  is  a  vessel  of  six  hundred  tons  burthen,  and 
when  they  hail  her  she  does  not  respond.  Then  the  ire  of 
the  young  Gascon  is  aroused,  and  he  orders  his  men  to  lay 
him  alongside.  This  the  men  do  reluctantly,  and  at  last  the 
bow-oar  throws  his  blade  apeak,  and  declares  that  the  Devil 
is  in  the  strange  ship,  and  that  he  won't  pull  another  stroke. 
Then  a  great  fear  seizes  the  rest  of  the  boat's  crew,  and 
they  all  begin  to  pull  about. 

"  Oh,  ho  !  What  is  this,  my  children  ?  "  says  the  young 
Gascon. 

"  Parbleu,  M.  Lieutenant !  We  are  going  back,  and  not 
to  the  Devil's  ship." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  my  pretty  ones  ?  Excuse  me,  my 
darlings,  not  now." 

And  so  M.  Lieutenant  draws  from  his  belt  a  heavy  trum 
pet-mouthed  pistol,  such  as  Drake  and  Frobisher  carried  in 
their  arm-chests,  and  looks  at  the  priming,  then  at  the  bow- 
oar.  So  the  bow-oar  can  do  nothing  but  pull  about  again, 
and  they  all  give  way  together  until  the  boat  grazes  the 
sides  of  the  strange  ship.  Then  the  fiery  young  Lieutenant 
mounts  the  deck  alone,  and  sees  the  sails  hanging  loosely, 
and  everything  in  confusion.  There  is  a  man  standing  at 
the  wheel,  and  the  gay  young  Lieutenant  calls  him  "Bro 
ther,"  and  asks  him  if  this  is  the  way  he  receives  company, 
and  slaps  him  on  the  back,  but  immediately  recoils  in  hor 
ror.  For  the  man  at  the  wheel  is  simply  a  frozen  corpse 


116  SHIPS 

holding  the  spokes.  Then  the  fiery  young  Lieutenant  takes 
off  his  hat  and  he  and  one  of  his  boldest  men,  quite  awe- 
stricken  and  subdued,  walk  forward  and  encounter  the  body 
of  a  man  frozen  in  the  act  of  making  a  fire.  Near  by  a 
woman  is  sitting  ;  pulseless,  lifeless,  and  statue-like.  They 
go  down  in  the  cabin  and  a  man  is  sitting  by  a  table  making 
entries  in  an  open  log-book.  They  go  up  to  him  and  speak, 
but  he  does  not  answer.  A  green  mould  covers  his  face 
and  hands,  and  he  is  rigid  and  cold.  They  see  the  last 
entries  in  the  log-book,  and  the  Lieutenant,  who  under 
stands  a  little  English,  makes  out  that  they  have  been  frozen 
in  the  ice  for  three  months,  that  provision  has  given  out, 
and  that  scurvy  has  taken  down  the  crew.  "  My  wife  died 
yesterday,"  says  the  Captain  in  the  log-book  —  and  "  God 
help  us  all,  for  we  can  do  nothing ! "  Then  the  young 
Gascon  takes  the  log-book  and  reembarks  silently,  and  the 
men  make  the  ashen  blades  smoke  in  the  row-locks  in  their 
hurry  to  get  away,  and  the  Lieutenant  shows  the  book  to 
M.  le  Comte,  who  at  once  bears  away  for  La  Belle  France. 
Then  inquiries  are  made  and  the  fate  of  a  missing  English 
ship  is  accidentally  discovered. 

These  were  the  two  prominent  incidents  which  were 
wont  to  invest  my  boyish  superstition  with  a  strange  faith 
in  the  personal  and  sensitive  qualities  of  ships.  Since  then 
I  have  known  them  more  intimately  in  connection  with  the 
sea,  but  never  as  pleasantly  as  in  the  old,  old  time.  I  have 
sailed  in  them,  but  have  lost  their  identity  in  that  of  the 
captain  and  crew  who  bullied  them,  and  carried  away  their 
spars  by  crowding  on  sail.  Then  I  have  seen  them  in  con 
nection  with  that  horrible  hybrid  —  the  steamship ;  and 
now  I  never  go  down  to  the  docks  to  see  the  old  Sky 
scraper  when  she  comes  in,  without  a  fear  of  seeing  a  smoke- 
funnel  sticking  out  from  her  decks,  or  finding  her  graceful 
contour  destroyed  by  paddle-boxes.  But  for  all  that  it  is 
pleasant  to  view  them  from  the  land  —  whether  nestling  at 


SHIPS  117 

the  wharves  or  trying  their  pinions  for  another  flight  to 
distant  lands. 

Connecting  in  their  long  voyages  the  East  and  the  West 
of  a  weary  life,  I  know  they  bring  to  my  fainting  sense  — 
even  as  the  Indian  ships  —  balm  from  those  warm,  sunny 
islands  of  my  youth,  now  past  to  me  forever.  I  know  they 
bring  messages  of  peace  and  good  will ;  and  I  have  some 
times  looked  forward,  not  regretfully,  to  the  time  when  one 
shall  wait  for  me  down  the  stream  of  Time,  with  braced 
yards  and  anchor  atrip  for  my  last  long  voyage.  For  my 
earliest,  dearest,  and  holiest  remembrance  I  can  trace  back 
to  the  ship.  Not  alone  the  ship  —  but  the  luminous  track 
over  the  black  waters  of  Galilee,  the  timid  disciples,  and 
the  One  lonely  central  figure  who  walked  nightly  on  the 
quiet  sea  where  I  sailed  in  childish  dreams,  saying  to  them 
—  to  me  !  —  "  Be  of  good  cheer,  be  not  afraid  —  it  is  I." 


WANTED  — A  PEINTEE1 

(Suggested  to  Bret  Harte  by  His  Employment  as  a  Compositor  on  the 
"Golden  Era") 

"  WANTED  —  a  printer,"  says  a  contemporary.  Wanted, 
a  mechanical  curiosity,  with  brain  and  fingers  —  a  thing 
that  will  set  so  many  type  in  a  day  —  a  machine  that  will 
think  and  act,  but  still  a  machine  —  a  being  who  under 
takes  the  most  systematic  and  monotonous  drudgery,  yet 
one  the  ingenuity  of  man  has  never  supplanted  mechanically 
—  that 's  a  printer. 

A  printer  —  yet  for  all  his  sometimes  dissipated  and  reck 
less  habits  —  a  worker.  At  all  times  and  hours,  day  and 
night ;  sitting  up  in  a  close,  unhealthy  office,  when  gay 
crowds  are  hurrying  to  the  theatre  —  later  still,  when  the 
street  revelers  are  gone  and  the  city  sleeps  —  in  the  fresh 
air  of  the  morning  —  in  the  broad  and  gushing  sunlight  — 
some  printing  machine  is  at  the  case,  with  its  eternal  un 
varying  click  f  click  ! 

Click  !  click  !  the  polished  type  fall  into  the  stick ;  the 
mute  integers  of  expression  are  marshaled  into  line,  and 
march  forth  as  immortal  print.  Click !  and  the  latest  in 
telligence  becomes  old  —  the  thought  a  principle  —  the 
simple  idea  a  living  sentiment.  Click  !  click !  from  grave  to 
gay,  item  after  item  —  a  robbery,  a  murder,  a  bit  of  scandal,  a 
graceful,  a  glowing  thought  —  are  in  turn  clothed  by  the 
impassive  fingers  of  the  machine,  and  set  adrift  in  the  sea 
of  thought.  He  must  not  think  of  the  future,  nor  recall 
the  past  —  must  not  think  of  home,  of  kindred,  of  wife  or 
1  Golden  Era,  January  27,  1861. 


WANTED— A  PRINTER  119 

of  babe  —  his  work  lies  before  him,  and  thought  is  chained 
to  his  copy. 

Ye  who  know  him  by  his  works,  who  read  the  papers  and 
are  quick  at  typographical  errors  —  whose  eye  may  rest  on 
these  mute  evidences  of  ceaseless  toil :  correspondents,  ed 
itors,  and  authors,  who  scorn  the  simple  medium  of  your 
fame,  think  not  that  the  printer  is  altogether  a  machine  — 
think  not  that  he  is  indifferent  to  the  gem  to  which  he  is  but 
the  setter —  but  think  a  subtle  ray  may  penetrate  the  recesses 
of  his  brain,  or  the  flowers  that  he  gathers  may  not  leave 
some  of  their  fragrance  on  his  toil-worn  fingers. 


WASHINGTON1 

THE  resemblance  of  a  face  long  dead,  with  clear,  blue  eyes 
and  massive,  slumbering  features,  has  been  to  me  a  familiar 
presence.  Out  of  the  past  that  serene  face  has  been  lifted 
with  sublime  suggestion,  as  to  my  boyish  fancy  the  mighty 
Sphinx  lifted  its  passionless  eyes  and  immovable  lips  from 
the  century  dust  that  hid  its  awful  shoulders.  When,  as  a 
child,  I  read  hesitatingly  from  the  book  upon  my  knee  of  this 
wonderful  man,  whose  face  I  knew,  I  could  only  look  upon 
him  as  the  conception  of  a  principle,  which  like  the  myth 
ological  creation  had  taken  the  form  and  figure  of  humanity. 
I  could  not  expect  to  see  him  or  know  him  but  as  some 
thing  vague  and  past. 

But  chiefly  because  I  had  had  enough  of  Hector  and 
Achilles,  and  more  of  Agamemnon;  and  a  great  deal  too 
much  of  that  glittering  staff  of  general  officers  and  brave 
men  since  the  Grecian  general,  I  did  not  turn  to  him  as  a 
mighty  warrior.  But  I  knew  of  him  —  patient  and  strong 
in  the  winter  camp  at  Valley  Forge.  Again  and  again, 
looking  down  that  dreary  valley  I  have  seen  the  snow  fall 
ing,  and,'  in  mercy  to  the  general's  prayer,  blotting  out  the 
crying  eloquence  of  the  blood-stained  tracks  of  frost-bitten 
and  weary  feet.  I  have  seen  this  struggling  poverty  and  suf 
fering  with  that  quick  appreciation  known  best,  I  think, 
to  the  Northern  boy.  I  have  pictured  the  crossing  of  the 
Delaware  in  a  way  that  made  the  painter's  canvas  a  feeble 
show,  and  so  from  the  fear  that  I  might  make  a  sectional 
man  out  of  this  Washington,  I  went  to  hear  of  him  from  one 
who  was  a  seer  and  a  magician,  and  who  knew  the  truth  and 
dared  to  show  it.2 

1  Golden  Era,  February  24,  1861. 

2  Rev.  T.  Starr  King,  Pastor  of  the  Unitarian  Church,  San  Francisco, 

California. 


WASHINGTON  121 

Then,  wrought  upon  by  the  magic  of  an  eloquent  tongue 
and  eye  and  hand,  the  dead  Washington  again  arose.  The 
stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  sepulchre,  and  the  waiting 
goddess  with  wings  trailing  in  the  dust  again  welcomed  the 
Hero.  He  beamed  luminously  through  that  crowded  and 
awe-hushed  chamber  —  not  the  Washington  of  history,  but 
the  living  man,  sympathetic  and  human,  with  every  chord 
of  his  great  soul  thrilling  responsive  with  that  audience, 
whose  every  pulse  kept  time  with  the  perfect  movement  of 
his  own. 

And  when  the  silence  fell  with  the  hushed  magic  of  that 
orator's  wonderful  voice,  the  sea  below  him  broke  again  in 
great  reacting  waves  of  applause  against  the  walls  of  the 
chamber.  Then  the  spellbound  audience  arose  from  their 
cramped  positions  and  went  wonderingly  away  as  in  a  dream. 

But  the  echo  of  that  voice  and  the  spell  of  that  Presence 
had  not  died  away  in  their  hearts.  For  some  time  after, 
when  the  noise  of  wheels  broke  the  stillness  of  quiet  streets, 
and  footfalls  echoed  from  the  walls  of  darkened  houses, 
people  were  constrained  to  speak  as  they  walked  along  of 
that  resurrected  Presence  of  which  they  had  known  so  much 
and  yet  so  little.  And  they  talked  it  over  at  breakfast- 
tables  the  next  morning,  nor  dreamed  that  this  was  the 
magician's  art.  I  wonder  if  it  were  ? 

And  so  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  George  Washing 
ton  passed  quietly  away.  When  night  came,  the  moon  rid 
ing  high  in  the  heavens  seemed  to  look  down  upon  the 
resurrected  face  of  the  dead  hero,  as  on  that  night  above  the 
crags  of  Latmos  she  touched  and  strove  to  wake  the  sleeping 
Endymion.  When  the  fog  veiled  her  face  at  last,  there  was 
a  clear  blue  heaven  at  the  north,  and  the  pole  star  glittered 
above  the  crest  of  the  distant  hill. 

And  with  the  stars  and  night,  a  fierce  west  wind  arose 
from  the  sea,  and  moving  landward  swept  over  the  city. 
It  caught  the  bunting  of  the  shipping,  and  drifted  it  steadily 


122  WASHINGTON 

toward  the  east.  It  straightened  and  stiffened  the  red  bars 
of  the  national  flag  in  its  sturdy  breath,  and  then  swept 
away  on  its  mission. 

Oh,  if  the  day  of  omens  be  not  passed,  would  it  have  been 
wrong  to  have  whispered  it  "  God  speed  "  on  that  mission  ? 
That  it  might  meet  and  greet  our  Eastern  brothers  as  the 
grateful  land  wind  met  the  first  discoverer  of  our  ever- 
blessed  country,  even  in  the  midst  of  mutiny  and  despair  ? 
That  it  might  steal  into  the  hearts  of  the  rebellious  crew 
of  that  laboring  ship  of  State,  as  the  west  wind,  fragrant 
with  the  spiced  breath  of  the  welcoming  land,  stole  into 
the  senses  of  the  distracted  mutineers  and  drew  them  gently 
to  the  land  ? 


THE  ANGELUS1 

As  I  sit  by  my  window  in  the  sharp  shadows  of  this 
flinty  twilight,  the  faint  far  tolling  of  a  bell  comes  to  me 
with  a  peculiar  significance.  I  have  been  looking  over  the 
Mission  Valley  along  a  prospective,  shut  in  by  the  lonely 
mountain  and  its  shining  cross.  In  the  middle  distance  a 
few  incisive  looking  roofs  oppose  their  hard  outlines  to  the 
sky.  The  steeple  of  St.  John's  in  the  wilderness  has  a 
bigoted  way  of  pointing  its  uncompromising  pinnacles 
upward  — but  that  Js  owing  to  the  atmosphere,  and  it's  easy  to 
look  beyond  to  the  sincere  lonely  mountain  and  its  crowning 
cross. 

I  can  fancy  also  a  strange  sympathy  with  the  Angelus, 
from  the  hills  capped  and  cowled  with  fog  like  gray  friars, 
to  the  sun,  prematurely  and  mistily  going  down  with  a  red 
disk  like  the  descending  Host.  I  am  conscious,  too,  of 
feeling  something  like  the  Captive  Knight  who  looked 
"from  the  Paynim  tower/'  and  am  half  convinced  that 
telling  beads,  playing  upon  a  lute,  and  tracing  my  name  with 
a  rusty  nail  upon  the  window  ledge  would  be  a  very  natural 
and  appropriate  expression.  But  a  shriek  from  the  Mis 
sion  locomotive  brings  back  the  Nineteenth  Century — and 
lo,  the  Angelus  is  dead.  A  motherly  cow  walks  up  and 
down  the  street  as  if  she  were  hired  to  give  a  rural  effect  to 
the  locality.  A  mild  fragrance  of  tea,  bread,  and  butter 
rises  from  the  area  railings.  The  long  sidewalks  have  a 
dreary  and  wind-swept  loneliness  —  the  Angelus  has  only 
rung  home  a  few  married  men,  belated,  who  have  lost  their 
dinners,  and  who  taste  a  bitter  premonition  of  their  wel 
come  in  the  shrewish  air. 

l  Golden  Era,  October  19,  1862. 


124  THE  ANGELUS 

With  this  formal  symbol  of  Faith  still  ringing  in  my 
ears,  a  few  unbeliefs  of  my  childhood  oddly  recur  to  me.  I 
think  that  children  are  much  more  skeptical  on  religious 
subjects  than  most  people  imagine  ;  I  know  that  my  first 
hypocrisy  was  on  such  topics. 

Why  do  I  recall  with  a  tingling  of  the  cheeks  my  infant 
knowledge  of  the  Heathen  ?  Why  does  the  blush  of  shame 
mantle  my  brow  as  I  look  back  to  the  systematic  deceit  I 
practiced  in  reading  a  certain  book  entitled  "  Conversation 
between  a  Converted  Heathen  and  a  Missionary  "  ?  Did  I 
dislike  that  Heathen  in  his  unconverted  state  ?  No  !  Did  I 
not  rather  rejoice  in  his  tuft  of  plumes,  his  martial  carriage, 
his  oiled  and  painted  skin  ?  Was  not  his  conduct  creditable 
and  romantic  compared  with  that  dreadful  Missionary  who 
resembled  the  Sunday-School  Teacher,  who  systematically 
froze  my  young  blood  ?  What  did  they  offer  me  instead  ? 
Had  I  any  respect  for  an  imbecile  black  being  who  groveled 
continually,  crying  "  Me  so  happy  —  bress  de  lor !  send  down 
him  salvation  berry  quick,"  in  uncouth  English  ?  Believed 
I  in  his  conversion  ?  Did  I  not  rather  know,  miserable  little 
deceiver  that  I  was,  that  during  this  conversation  his  eyes 
were  resting  on  the  calves  of  that  Missionary's  legs  with 
anthropophagous  lust  and  longing  ? 

The  Angelus  brings  likewise  the  "  Children's  Hour  "  — 
mentioned  by  Mr.  Longfellow.  But  the  t(  blue-eyed  ban 
ditti  "  of  this  vicinity  do  not  confine  their  raids  to  demon 
strative  embraces  in  the  library,  but  congregate  on  the  side 
walks  and  demand  each  other's  gingerbread  with  a  more 
sincere  conception  of  the  character.  Nursery-maids  occa 
sionally  air  their  young  charges,  and  compare  bonnet-strings 
on  the  steps.  There  is  a  very  round  little  boy  who  makes 
a  point  of  falling  down  at  the  top  of  the  hilly  street,  and  be 
gins  to  roll  to  the  bottom  with  the  most  alarming  rapidity. 
But  some  one  is  sure  to  stop  him  on  the  way.  From  his 
peculiar  conformation,  it  is  terrible  to  think  of  an  omission 


THE  ANGELUS  125 

of  this  customary  check,  which  he  seems  to  confidently  look 
for  on  every  occasion. 

So  with  the  pleasant  voices  of  children,  the  Angelus,  the 
fragrance  of  bread  and  butter,  and  the  abiding  influence  of 
old  memories,  the  day  fades  into  night.  As  the  darkness 
slips  from  the  Contra  Costa  hills  a  light  comes  out  brightly 
and  hopefully.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  all  hours  of  the 
night  it  may  be  seen  there,  undimmed  and  unquenched. 
Looking  off  from  this  lonely  tower  I  am  strengthened,  and 
am  inclined  to  so  far  imitate  the  lonely  captive  as  to  write 
with  a  diamond  upon  the  pane  the  line  that  flashes  with 
that  light  upon  my  memory.  It  was  written  above  Dr. 
Kane's  Journal  in  the  longer  Arctic  night :  "Keeping  our 
trust,  in  darkness." 


AKTEMUS  WARD* 

AETEMUS  WARD  has  gone.  The  Showman  has  folded 
his  exhibition  tent  like  the  Arab  and  silently  stolen  away. 
But  like  the  Arab,  Artemus  has  been  accused  of  certain 
Bedouin-like  qualities,  and  has  been  viewed  by  some  in 
terior  critics  as  a  literary  raider  —  scouring  the  face  of  the 
land  and  skimming  the  fatness  thereof.  Others  have 
thought  themselves  humbugged  at  his  lectures  and  openly 
assert  that  his  "  Babes "  are  stuffed  with  sawdust  —  the 
sawdust  of  old  circus  arenas  at  that. 

Of  course  this  sort  of  thing  is  new  to  Calif  ornians.  They 
are  by  nature  excessively  cautious.  They  never  invest 
money  in  doubtful  speculations.  They  are  never  carried 
away  by  excitements,  and  it  is  clear  that  if  Artemus  has 
issued  stock  at  a  dollar  a  share  and  people  consider  it  don't 
pay,  the  imposition  is  altogether  unprecedented  and  worthy 
of  reprehension. 

But  has  it  been  an  imposition  ?  Did  Artemus  by  impli 
cation  or  reputation  profess  more  than  he  has  accomplished  ? 

He  came  to  us  as  the  author  of  an  admirable  series  of 
sketches  which  exhibit  a  special  type  of  humor.  It  is  not 
exactly  the  highest  nor  the  most  ennobling  type.  Artemus 
is  not  the  greatest  American  humorist,  nor  does  he  himself 
profess  to  be,  but  he  deserves  the  credit  of  combining  cer 
tain  qualities  which  make  him  the  representative  of  a  kind 
of  humor  that  has  more  of  a  national  characteristic  than  the 
higher  and  more  artistic  standard.  His  strength  does  not 
lie  simply  in  grotesque  spelling  —  that  is  a  mechanical  trick 
suggested  by  his  education  as  a  printer  —  and  those  who 
1  Golden  Era,  December  27,  1863. 


ARTEMUS  WARD  127 

have  gone  to  hear  him  in  this  expectation  have  been  prop 
erly  punished  —  but  it  is  the  humor  of  audacious  exaggera 
tion  —  of  perfect  lawlessness  ;  a  humor  that  belongs  to  the 
country  of  boundless  prairies,  limitless  rivers,  and  stupendous 
cataracts.  In  this  respect  Mr.  Ward  is  the  American  hu 
morist,  par  excellence,  and  "  his  book "  is  the  essence  of 
that  fun  which  overlies  the  surface  of  our  national  life,  which 
is  met  in  the  stage,  rail-car,  canal  and  flat  boat,  which  bursts 
out  over  camp-fires  and  around  bar-room  stoves  —  a  humor 
that  has  more  or  less  local  coloring,  that  takes  kindly  to, 
and  half  elevates,  slang,  that  is  of  to-day  and  full  of  present 
application.  The  Showman  has  no  purpose  to  subserve  be 
yond  the  present  laugh.  He  has  no  wrongs  to  redress  in 
particular,  no  especial  abuse  to  attack  with  ridicule,  no 
moral  to  point.  He  does  not  portray  the  Yankee  side  of 
our  national  character  as  did  Sam  Slick,  partly  because  there 
is  a  practical  gravity  and  shrewdness  below  the  clockmaker's 
fun  —  but  chiefly  because  it  is  local  rather  than  national. 
He  has  not  the  satirical  power  of  Orpheus  C.  Kerr. 

Of  such  quality  was  Artemus  Ward's  literary  reputation 
as  received  by  us.  And  yet  some  people  are  surprised  and 
indignant  that  his  late  lectures  exhibited  this  lawless  con 
struction  —  that  he  gave  us  fun  without  application.  This 
is  a  pretty  hard  criticism  from  people  who  are  content  to  go 
night  after  night  to  the  Minstrels  and  listen  to  the  pointless 
repetition  of  an  inferior  quality  of  this  humor.  But  it  af 
fords  a  key  to  their  criticism.  Let  the  Minstrel  wash  his 
face  —  and  remove  his  exaggerated  shirt-collar  —  and  how 
long  will  they  stand  his  nonsense  ?  When  a  keen-looking, 
fashionably -dressed  young  fellow  mounts  the  stage  and  be 
gins  to  joke  with  us  in  this  fashion  without  the  accessories 
of  paint  or  costume,  we  feel  uneasy.  Had  Artemus  ap 
peared  habited  as  the  Showman,  surrounded  by  a  few  wax 
figures,  even  the  most  captious  critic  would  have  been  satis 
fied. 


128  ARTEMUS  WARD 

Artemus  Ward's  career  in  California  has  been  a  pecuniary 
success.  The  people  have  paid  liberally  to  see  the  Show 
man,  and  he  has  reaped  a  benefit  greater  than  he  might  have 
made  from  the  sale  of  his  works.  It  was  a  testimonial  to 
the  man's  talent,  which  is  not  objectionable  per  se  —  though 
better  judgment  might  have  kept  the  subscription  paper  out 
of  his  own  hand.  It  is  a  success  that  will  enable  him  for 
some  time  to  live  independent  of  mere  popularity  —  to  in 
dulge  his  good  taste  and  prepare  something  more  enduring 
for  the  future.  In  the  mean  time  no  one  enjoying  the 
pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  his  frank,  genial 
nature  ;  none  who  have  observed  his  modest  and  appreciative 
disposition,  or  the  perfect  health  and  vigor  that  pervades  his 
talent,  will  grudge  him  that  success. 


FIXING  UP  AN  OLD  HOUSE1 

WHEN  I  had  secured  the  possession  of  my  new  home, 
and  stood  in  its  doorway,  thoughtfully  twirling  the  key  in 
my  hand,  the  words  of  the  retiring  tenant  struck  me  with 
renewed  intensity  and  vigor.  "  It's  a  snug  little  cottage," 
he  had  said,  confidentially,  "  and  a  cheap  rent  —  but  it 
wants  to  be  painted  and  papered  bad."  As  I  looked  around 
it,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  one  of  these  requirements 
had  already  been  met  —  that  it  had  been  "  papered  bad," 
and  that  its  present  ragged,  torn,  and  dirty  walls  looked 
better  now  than  they  must  have  looked  in  the  primal  horrors 
of  their  original  paper.  There  was  something  peculiarly 
provoking  about  the  old  pattern,  which  bore  marks  of  having 
been  picked  at  here  and  there  as  if  by  exasperated  and 
vicious  fingers.  But  the  rent  was  cheap,  and  Mr.  Chase  had 
said,  "  Economy  was  the  lesson  of  the  times  "  ;  and  as  an 
humble  employee  of  that  officer  and  a  recipient  of  his 
notes,  I  could  not  do  better  than  take  the  advice  and  the 
house,  which  I  did  at  once. 

"  Why  could  n't  you  paper  it  yourself  ?  "  asked  my  wife 
suddenly,  with  a  gleam  of  inspiration.  "  You  know  that 
you  're  —  "  But  she  did  not  proceed  any  further  in  this 
feminine  attempt  to  associate  my  literary  habits  with  this 
branch  of  upholstering,  and  only  said :  "  You  might  do  it 
after  office  hours  instead  of  writing,  and  you  'd  save  money 
by  it." 

The  house  was  not  large,  and  as  I  could  look  forward  to 
finishing  it  within  a  reasonable  time  during  my  leisure  hours, 
I  rashly  consented  to  put  aside  my  pen  and  take  up  the 
1  California,  July  16,  1864. 


130  FIXING  UP  AN  OLD  HOUSE 

paint-  and  paste-brush.  The  choice  of  paper  next  occupied 
and  perplexed  me  for  some  days ;  it  was  odd  how  critical 
and  fastidious  my  taste  in  regard  to  patterns  developed  with 
this  first  opportunity  I  ever  had  to  indulge  it.  After  some 
hesitation  I  finally  selected  two  kinds,  but  I  had  not  pro 
ceeded  far  before  I  discovered  that  the  most  charming  pat 
tern  was  extremely  difficult  to  match  and  involved  a  waste 
of  material  that  was  as  ruinous  to  my  pocket  as  it  was 
knowingly  profitable  to  the  losel  knave  who  sold  it  to  me. 
This  was  my  first  intimation  of  difficulties.  I  would  will 
ingly  pass  over  the  rest.  I  would  like  to  forget  the  sin 
gular  propensity  which  that  paper  displayed  to  entwine 
itself  lovingly  in  damp  curves  around  my  legs,  and  how  I 
vainly  endeavored  to  evade  its  chaste  and  cold  embrace  as  I 
was  putting  it  on.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  how  I  papered 
one  side  of  the  room  before  I  discovered  that  the  pattern 
was  upside  down,  and  how  during  this  time  I  felt  generally 
of  the  paste,  pasty,  and  could  n't  rid  myself  of  the  un 
comfortable  impression  that  I  was  a  loaf  of  bread  not  quite 
done.  Let  me  hurry  over  these  things  to  that  day  when 
I  found  myself  standing  in  abject  humility  before  a  paper- 
hanger  whom  I  had  finally  been  obliged  to  call  in.  He  was 
a  serious  man  of  about  forty,  with  a  becoming  pride  in  his 
profession.  After  casting  a  rapid  and  supercilious  glance 
around  the  walls,  he  approached  my  paste-bucket,  and  taking 
a  little  of  the  mixture  on  his  finger,  smelt  of  it,  and  tasted 
of  it.  As  he  turned  away  with  a  pained  yet  forgiving  smile 
on  his  fine  features,  I  ventured  to  humbly  ask  his  opinion 
of  my  work.  "  As  a  amatoor  I  've  looked  at  wuss  walls  nor 
that,"  he  replied,  somewhat  vaguely.  At  any  other  time 
I  would  have  been  tickled  with  the  idea  of  an  amateur 
paper-hanger,  but  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  my  failures  had 
brought  me  to  such  a  low  state  of  moral  dejection  that  I 
eagerly  seized  this  miserable  straw,  and  subsequently  gave 
him  to  understand,  in  rather  general  terms,  that  I  was 


FIXING  UP  AN  OLD  HOUSE  131 

possessed  of  a  singular  monomania  for  paper-hanging;  that 
it  was  not  economy,  but  love  of  a  noble  profession  which 
had  incited  my  work,  and  that,  in  the  language  of  William 
Birch,  "  my  parents  were  wealthy." 

I  should  state  here  that  my  labors  during  that  time  had 
been  materially  assisted  by  the  presence  of  several  white- 
headed  but  youthful  denizens  of  the  neighborhood,  who, 
having  at  first  watched  my  progress  by  flattening  their  snub 
noses  against  the  window,  finally  grew  bolder  and  came  in 
and  out  of  the  house  and  assisted  me  in  removing  the  old 
paper,  scattering  it  far  and  wide  through  the  streets,  and 
also  otherwise  proffered  their  assistance  and  learned  to  ad 
dress  me  by  name,  and  to  whom  I  offered  a  kind  of  provi 
dential  excitement  in  the  reaction  which  followed  the  fierce 
festivities  of  the  Fourth. 

My  ill  success  in  papering  did  not,  however,  deter  me 
from  my  original  resolution  of  painting  the  house.  Accord 
ingly,  I  procured  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  extraordinary 
quantity  of  white  lead,  and,  armed  with  two  brushes,  seri 
ously  set  myself  to  work.  Here  my  progress  was  marked 
with  complete  success.  It  was  evidently  a  more  scientific 
and  higher  profession  than  my  previous  one,  and  I  reflected 
with  satisfaction  that  it  was  next  to  frescoing  —  and  what 
was  Michael  Angelo  but  a  fresco  painter  ?  Yet  I  could 
not  help  noticing  that,  although  the  paint  looked  white  when 
it  was  first  applied,  it  gradually  faded  out  and  permitted 
primal  stains  to  appear  —  "  damned  spots  "  that  would  not 
"  out "  —  and  that  singular  drops  —  pearly  tears  —  broke 
out  along  the  joints  and  panels  of  the  doors.  Finally,  when 
the  whole  wood-work  had  taken  to  weeping,  I  was  forced  — 
I  write  it  with  shame  —  to  call  in  a  painter  —  a  remarkably 
polite  man  —  who  praised  my  mechanical  dexterity,  but  in 
formed  me  courteously  that  in  mixing  the  color  I  had  omitted 
some  important  ingredient.  This  I  had  remedied  somewhat 
by  the  extra  quantity  of  paint  I  had  used.  "  It  Js  nothing 


132  FIXING  UP  AN  OLD  HOUSE 

—  nothing  —  a  mere  trifle ;  an  accident  that  frequently 
occurs, "  he  remarked,  with  genuine  good  breeding.  "  It  will 
take  a  week  or  two  longer  to  dry,  that 's  all ;  and  then  you 
can  give  it  another  coat " ;  and  bowed  himself  out  of  my 
presence.  I  may  support  his  assertion  by  stating  that  it 
still  exhibits  a  wonderful  humidity  and  stickiness,  sufficient 
to  retain  incautious  visitors  in  the  position  they  often  assume 
in  leaning  against  it,  and  that  I  keep  a  small  sponge  and 
turpentine  constantly  on  hand  against  accidents.  In  the 
mean  time  there  is  a  mild  suggestion  of  its  presence  in  the 
odor  that  fills  the  house  —  an  odor  that  is  not  unhealthy, 
as  my  polite  painter  assures  me  he  has  worked  in  it  for 
fifteen  years  and  never  found  it  even  disagreeable. 

The  usual  effect  of  partial  renovation  gradually  developed 
itself  in  my  new  house.  Each  improvement  threw  into 
new  and  unexpected  relief  some  defect  which  otherwise 
might  have  passed  unnoticed.  Thus,  new  paper  rendered 
fresh  paint  an  imperative  necessity.  Presently  I  discovered 
that  the  doors  wanted  fixing  and  the  windows  new  weights, 
and  that  a  carpenter  was  required.  As  a  friend  had  recom 
mended  to  me  a  workman  whom  he  described  as  a  "good 
fellow  and  the  very  man  I  wanted,"  I  engaged  him  at  once. 

He  certainly  was  a  good  fellow.  Our  terms  of  agreement 
were  that  he  should  superintend  the  work,  and  I  should 
render  him  such  assistance  as  lay  in  my  power.  Having 
entered  heartily  into  all  my  plans  and  the  difficulties  of  my 
situation,  he  began  his  arduous  duties  by  an  animated  and 
desultory  conversation  in  which  he  delivered  an  account  of  his 
past  life  and  history.  Digressing  easily  and  gracefully  into 
the  present  topics,  he  gave  me  his  opinion  of  the  war  and 
described  the  situation  before  Richmond  by  a  diagram  drawn 
on  a  board  with  a  piece  of  chalk.  Before  we  had  definitely 
settled  the  success  of  Grant,  it  was  high  noon,  and  declin 
ing  his  invitation  to  drink  with  him,  I  took  the  opportunity, 
while  he  was  absent  at  lunch,  to  drive  a  few  nails  and  plane 


FIXING  UP  AN  OLD  HOUSE  133 

off  the  top  of  a  door.  When  he  returned  we  continued  our 
conversation  by  the  aid  of  more  diagrams,  until  nightfall 
when  we  had  put  up  two  shelves,  driven  half  a  dozen  nails, 
and  used  up  all  our  chalk.  The  assistance  I  rendered  him 
was  not  clearly  definite.  I  think  it  amounted  to  handing 
him  nails  when  required,  and  bringing  him  tools  out  of  his 
chest.  But  he  was  a  very  good  fellow.  When  we  parted 
at  night  he  assured  me  that  he  liked  to  work  for  a  gentle 
man  that  was  quiet  and  sociable-like,  and  promised  to  bring 
me  a  newspaper  containing  some  lines  written  on  the  death 
of  his  cousin's  child  by  scarlet  fever.  He  charged  me,  I 
think,  five  dollars,  but  he  was  a  clever  fellow,  and  we  got 
along  together  very  well ;  and  I  am  now  seriously  consider 
ing  whether  I  shall  not  employ  him  in  fitting  up  my  next 
new  house. 


ON  A  PRETTY  GIRL  AT  THE  OPERA1 

BEING  at  the  Opera  the  other  night,  I  chanced  to  be 
seated  near  an  exceedingly  pretty  girl.  For  various  reasons, 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  her  here.  I  might  as  well 
try  to  convey  the  effect  of  that  particular  passage  of  Doni 
zetti  which  seemed  an  accompaniment  of  her  loveliness,  by 
introducing  the  musical  score  at  this  point,  as  to  describe 
the  bright  beauty  of  her  face  in  those  formal  epithets  and 
somewhat  serious  and  decorous  sentences  which  my  thoughts 
are  apt  to  assume  in  the  process  of  composition.  Had  I 
the  glowing  pen  of  a  Cobb,  a  Braddon,  or  a  Southworth,  or 
could  I  borrow  for  a  moment  the  graceful  style  of  that 
ingenious  young  person  who  writes  the  love-stories  for 
"Harper's  Magazine,"  I  think  I  could  fire  each  masculine 
bosom  with  an  inventory  of  her  charms.  I  say  masculine, 
as  women  do  not  always  sympathize  with  our  delineation 
of  their  sex's  loveliness,  and  are  apt,  when  we  allude  to 
flowing  ringlets  or  a  beautiful  complexion,  to  question  the 
genuineness  of  the  one  and  the  ownership  of  the  other.  I 
leave  the  task  to  more  competent  hands.  Even  as  Falstaff 
spoiled  his  voice  by  the  too  early  "  singing  of  anthems,"  so 
perhaps  I  have  been  unduly  impressed  in  my  youth  by  those 
short-hand  axioms  which  were  the  text  of  my  copy-book, 
and  caught  not  only  the  outline  and  letter,  but  much  of  the 
formal  seriousness  of  the  original.  Perhaps  the  young  beauty 
detected  traces  of  this  quality  of  mind  in  my  lugubrious 
visage  and  the  sad  civility  of  my  demeanor,  for  she  allowed 
her  lorgnette  to  rest  upon  me  with  a  frank  and  fearless  sim 
plicity  which  a  few  years  ago  I  might  have  foolishly  misin- 
1  Californian,  November  5,  1864. 


ON  A  PKETTY   GIRL  AT  THE   OPERA  135 

terpreted.  Ah  me  !  I  knew  only  too  well  why  she  did  so,  now, 
and  why  she  slyly  glanced  but  once  at  the  brisk  young  fellows 
who  lined  the  walls,  and  pensively  sucked  the  handles  of 
their  canes.  She  saw  that  I  was  harmless.  Her  quick 
feminine  instincts  told  her  that  I  had  already  fallen  in  the 
toils  of  her  strategic  sex  —  perhaps  something  about  my 
hair  betokened  the  frequent  presence  of  infant  fingers,  and 
even  the  careless  movement  of  my  right  foot  thrown  over 
my  left  leg  betrayed  the  habit  of  figurative  journeys  to  Ban- 
bury  Cross  in  quest  of  that  apochryphal  old  horse-woman. 
0  my  brother  Benedicks,  we  may  assume  the  youthfulness 
and  habiliments  of  twenty-one,  we  may  jest  and  wear  our 
chains  with  a  wild  and  hysterical  freedom  ;  somewhere  about 
us  we  carry  the  private  mark  of  the  one  woman  who  con 
trols  our  destinies  —  a  mark  invisible  to  ourselves,  but  one 
by  which  the  rest  of  her  sex  know  and  weigh  us.  We  de 
tect  it  not  in  others  —  the  knowledge  is  peculiar  to  them  — 
a  terrible  freemasonry  which  obtains  among  these  guileless 
creatures  to  an  extent  which  I  sometimes  shudder  to  think 
of.  And  yet  —  and  it  is  another  reason  why  my  fair  young 
friend  dropped  that  mask  of  coquetry  which  is  woman's 
natural  weapon  of  defense  —  she  knew  that  by  virtue  of  my 
very  condition  I  held  her  at  a  disadvantage.  I  knew  how 
much  artifice  went  to  make  up  the  ensemble  of  that  charm 
ing  figure.  I  knew  the  disenchanting  processes  which  ended 
in  such  an  enchanting  result.  I  had  peeped  into  the 
veiled  mysteries  which  surround  the  feminine  toilette,  and 
knew  — 

But  the  music  changed,  and  my  thoughts,  changing  with 
it  as  the  curtain  rose,  spared  me  the  unmanly  disclosure. 
How  pretty  she  looked  as  she  leaned  slightly  forward,  her 
white  cloak  dropping  from  her  bare  little  shoulder  as  the 
mists  might  have  slipped  down  Mount  Ida  and  disclosed  the 
sacred  summits  to  the  dazzled  shepherd.  Then  it  was  that 
Capricornicus,  father  of  half  a  dozen  grown-up  daughters, 


136      ON  A  PRETTY  GIRL  AT  THE  OPERA 

leaned  forward,  too,  and  applied  his  opera-glass  to  eyes 
whose  wickedness  even  that  fashionable  media  could  not 
make  respectable.  Then  it  was  that,  seeking  to  escape  his 
scrutiny,  she  raised  her  glass  to  the  opposite  wall  where 
seventeen  young  gentlemen,  splendidly  attired,  and  having 
a  general  atmosphere  of  kid  gloves  about  them,  were  de 
cently  ranged.  Poor  girl!  Instantly  seventeen  opera- 
glasses  were  leveled,  and  seventeen  hands  went  up  to  an 
equal  number  of  neckties  to  arrange  them  as  she  gazed. 
There  was  one  exception.  One  young  man  modestly  dropped 
his  eyes  and  affected  deep  concern,  just  then,  with  the  busi 
ness  of  the  stage,  while  a  deep  flush  mounted  his  cheeks. 
He  was  evidently  thinking  of  the  girl,  while  the  others 
were  thinking  of  themselves.  However,  she  did  not  seem 
to  notice  it,  and  the  sincerer  compliment,  as  usual,  passed 
unheeded.  Her  mission  that  evening  was  to  be  observed 
—  not  to  observe.  The  object  of  her  existence  was  fulfilled 
in  looking  pretty. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  gift  of  nature  that  requires  as  little 
exertion  on  the  part  of  the  owner  as  personal  beauty.  I 
am  not  certain  but  that  it  is  this  very  absence  of  effort  which 
excites  our  admiration ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  cruel  paradoxes 
of  life  that  the  very  attempt  to  please  often  militates  against 
the  desired  result.  A  few  yards  from  my  fair  friend  sat  a 
plainer  young  girl,  who  by  amiability  of  manner  was  evi 
dently  seeking  to  impress  the  gentleman  at  her  side  ;  on  the 
next  bench  an  intelligent-looking  little  brunette  was  as 
evidently  exerting  her  talents  of  conversation  to  the  same 
end.  Yet  there  sat  my  pretty  girl,  unconsciously  absorbing 
even  the  wandering  attention  of  those  gallants  ;  there  she 
was,  enchanting,  bewitching  —  what  you  will  —  with  no 
exertion  on  her  part,  nay,  without  even  tickling  the  mascu 
line  vanity  by  giving  them  the  least  reason  to  suppose  that 
any  scintillation  of  her  dark  eyes  was  induced  by  them. 
Still  more  :  there  was  an  artful  suggestion  of  the  very  quali- 


ON  A  PRETTY  GIRL  AT  THE  OPERA  137 

ties  which  belonged  to  her  neighbors  in  her  beauty.  There 
was  amiability  nestling  in  the  curves  of  her  dimpled  cheeks, 
brightness  and  intelligence  in  the  quick  turn  of  her  eye, 
love  in  its  liquid  depths,  piety  in  its  upward  glance,  mod 
esty  in  the  downward  sweep  of  its  maiden  fringes.  Yet  if 
her  performance  of  these  virtues  kept  well  in  the  rear  of  her 
promises,  who  was  to  blame  ?  A  burst  from  the  orchestra 
obviated  any  answer  to  that  last  question,  and  I  turned  to 
ward  the  stage. 

I  have  forgotten  the  exact  plot  of  the  opera ;  suffice  that 
it  was  the  old  duet  of  Love  and  Youth ;  the  pleasing  fic 
tion,  which  we  always  accept,  that  genuine  passion  finds  its 
best  interpreter  in  the  tenor  and  soprano  voices ;  that  all 
vice  is  of  a  baritone  quality ;  that  disappointed  love  or  jeal 
ousy  seeks  an  exponent  in  the  contralto  :  and  that,  whatever 
may  be  our  trials,  we  have  a  number  of  sympathizing  friends 
always  handy  in  the  chorus.  As  the  handsome  tenor,  glit 
tering  with  gold-lace,  velvet,  and  spangles,  gallantly  leads 
the  black-eyed  soprano,  equally  resplendent  and  unreal,  in 
satin  and  jewels,  down  to  the  footlights,  and  pours  forth  his 
simulated  passion  in  most  unnatural  yet  romantic  song,  I 
cannot  help  a  slight  stirring  at  my  breast  and  turn  toward 
my  beauty,  as  if  she  were  in  some  way  a  part  of  the  perform 
ance.  I  can't  help  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would  be  were 
I  a  few  years  younger,  and  she  would  permit  me  to  ramble 
with  her,  hand  in  hand,  under  the  canvas  trees  beside  the 
pasteboard  rocks ;  to  sit  at  her  feet  as  she  reclined  on  the 
bank  at  the  R.  U.  K,  and  so  tell  her  of  my  passion  in  B 
natural.  I  would  promise,  and  we  should  mutually  agree, 
that  our  engagement  should  not  go  beyond  the  clasping  of 
hands,  amidst  the  voices  of  a  joyful  chorus,  as  the  curtain 
descends  before  the  winking  footlights.  I  have  my  doubts 
about  the  romance  extending  further.  In  the  absence  of 
any  opera  which  goes  beyond  the  simple  act  of  espousal,  I 
should  hesitate.  I  have  sometimes  been  tormented  with 


138  ON  A  PRETTY   GIRL  AT  THE   OPERA 

vague  surmises  as  to  what  became  of  the  heroines  I  have  so 
often  seen  happily  disposed  of  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  I 
fear  that  within  a  month  after  the  marriage  of  the  Daughter 
of  the  Kegiment,  Toneo  addressed  his  wife  somewhat  after 
this  fashion :  "  Now,  my  dear,  considering  your  aunt's  pre 
judices  and  the  circles  in  which  we  move,  you  really  must 
try  to  get  over  that  infernal  barrack-room  slang  "  ;  or,  sar 
castically,  "  Oh !  I  suppose  that  was  when  you  were  in  the 
army";  or,  vindictively,  when  Sulpice  came  to  see  her, 

"D me,  madam,  if  a  regiment  of  fathers-in-law  ain't 

drawing  it  a  little  too  heavy."  I  have  no  doubt  that  Amina 
often  had  that  circumstance  of  being  found  in  the  Count's 
bedroom  thrown  in  her  face  by  her  credulous  spouse ;  and 
if  Miss  Linda  of  Chamounix  succeeded  in  explaining  the 
circumstances  of  that  little  Parisian  episode  in  her  life,  sat 
isfactorily  to  her  husband,  it 's  more  than  she  has  done  to 
me. 

I  would  not  have  the  thoughtless  reader  suppose  that  this 
terrible  picture  of  matrimonial  experience  is  at  all  biased. 
Can  any  one  doubt  from  Madelaine's  character  that  she  did 
not  lead  the  poor  Postillion  of  Lonjumeau  a  devil  of  a  life 
after  she  finally  captured  him  ?  or  that  she  did  not  occasion 
ally  make  him  feel  who  had  the  money,  and  talk  hypocriti 
cally  of  her  dear  deceased  aunt  in  the  Isle  of  France,  when 
he  had  a  fellow-actor  down  to  dinner  ?  I  fear,  too,  that 
there  is  no  musical  accompaniment  which  can  lend  an  air 
of  romance  to  the  bringing-up  of  a  small  family,  and  that 
Mozart  himself  couldn't  invest  whooping-cough  with  har 
mony,  or  express  croup,  even  with  the  air  of  a  bassoon,  in 
a  manner  that  would  be  entertaining.  And  the  more  that 
I  look  at  my  young  beauty  as  she  laughs  and  chats  away 
at  her  companion,  I  fear  that  I  should  not  choose  her  for 
any  of  the  emergencies  I  have  just  suggested,  were  I  one  of 
those  who  are  standing  against  the  wall,  pensively  sucking 
their  canes.  Why  I  should  not  is  a  question  that  as  I  am 


ON  A  PRETTY  GIRL  AT  THE  OPERA  139 

about  to  answer  the  curtain  falls,  and  with  the  sudden  ex 
tinguishing  of  the  bright  but  unreal  world  beyond,  as  if  she 
were  a  part  of  it,  rises  my  beauty,  draws  her  cloak  about  her 
polished  shoulders,  and  mixing  with  the  crowd  passes  away 
from  these  pages  forever. 


OUR  LAST   OFFERING1 

ON    THE    ASSASSINATION    OP    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

IF  I  had  not  heard  the  terrible  news,  and  were  inclined 
to  write  upon  some  other  topic,  I  fancy  that  I  should  be 
dimly  conscious  of  a  something  in  the  air  —  a  moral  miasma 
tainting  the  free  atmosphere  and  benumbing  the  play  of 
brain  and  fingers.  As  it  is,  there  is  an  indefinable  magnet 
ism  in  the  grief  of  twenty  millions  of  people  ;  a  strange  and 
new  sense  of  insecurity  in  those  things  which  we  have  hith 
erto  looked  upon  as  most  secure,  which  disturbs  that  mental 
equipoise  most  conducive  to  composition.  My  pen,  accus 
tomed  to  deal  glibly  enough  with  fiction  and  abstract  char 
acter,  moves  feebly,  and  finally  stops  still  before  the  terrible 
reality  of  this  crime  which  has  put  a  Nation  in  mourning, 
and  leaves  my  poor  tribute  an  uninterpreted  symbol  upon 
the  altar-tomb  of  a  man  whose  honesty,  integrity,  and  sim 
ple  faith  I  most  reverenced  and  respected.  It  is  the  cruel 
fate  of  the  imaginative  scribbler,  that  finding  a  tongue  for 
fanciful  griefs,  or  the  remoter  afflictions  of  others,  he  is  too 
often  denied  expression  to  those  real  sorrows  which  touch 
him  more  closely. 

Abler  pens  than  mine  have  demonstrated  how  the  rhetoric 
of  chivalry,  which  expressed  itself  in  the  attack  on  Charles 
Sumner,  found  a  fitting  climax  in  the  assassination  of  Abra 
ham  Lincoln,  but  as  yet  I  have  not  seen  recorded  that  which 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  better  illustration  of  their  peculiar 
logic.  Four  years  ago  the  Slave  Power  accepted  the  usual 
arbitrament  of  the  ballot-box  with  seeming  faith  and  sin- 
i  Californian,  April  22,  1865. 


OUR  LAST  OFFERING  141 

cerity.  Their  principles  were  fairly  defeated,  and  they 
made  war  on  the  Nation.  Four  years  later  and  the  rem 
nants  of  the  same  power  in  the  North  again  submitted  their 
principle  to  a  like  arbitrament.  They  were  again  defeated 
—  and  they  assassinated  the  President ! 

No  other  public  man  seems  to  me  to  have  impressed  his 
originality  so  strongly  upon  the  people  as  did  Abraham  Lin 
coln.  His  person  and  peculiar  characteristics  were  the 
familiar  and  common  property  of  the  Nation.  In  his  char 
acter  and  physique  the  broad  elements  of  a  Western  civil 
ization  and  topography  seem  to  have  been  roughly  thrown 
together.  The  continuity  of  endless  rivers  and  boundless 
prairies  appeared  to  be  oddly  typified  in  his  tall  form  and 
large  and  loosely-jointed  limbs,  and  that  uncouth  kindliness 
of  exterior  which  in  nature  and  man  sometimes  atones  for 
the  lack  of  cultivation.  His  eloquence  and  humor  partook 
of  the  like  local  and  material  influences,  mixed  with  that 
familiar  knowledge  of  men  and  character  which  the  easy 
intercourse  of  the  pioneer  had  fostered,  and  the  whole  sea 
soned  with  those  anecdotes  which,  like  the  legendary  ballads 
of  early  European  civilization,  constituted  the  sole  literature 
of  the  Western  settlements.  Let  me  go  further  and  say 
that,  in  my  humble  opinion,  he  was,  as  a  representative 
Western  man,  the  representative  American.  That  correct 
and  sometimes  narrow  New  England  civilization  and  its 
corresponding  crisp  and  dapper  style  of  thought,  which  for 
years  represented  the  North  in  the  councils  of  the  Nation, 
has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  at  best  an  English  graft, 
which,  if  it  has  not  dwarfed  the  growth  or  spoiled  the  vitality 
of  the  original  stock,  has  at  least  retarded  the  formation  of 
national  character.  Nor  do  I  say  this  with  any  the  less 
reverence  for  that  Puritan  element,  and  its  deep  reliance  on 
the  familiar  presence  of  God,  which  I  believe  has  to-day 
saved  this  Nation.  Yet  there  has  always  seemed  to  me  to 
be  a  certain  grim,  poetic  justice  and  symbolic  meaning  in 


142  OUR  LAST  OFFERING 

the  providential  selection  of  this  simple-minded,  uncouth, 
and  honest  man,  in  preference,  perhaps,  to  one  of  our  more 
elevated  and  elegant  philosophers  and  thinkers,  as  the  in 
strument  to  humble  white-handed  and  elegantly  dressed 
arrogance  —  this  cheap  chivalry  of  the  circus-rider  which 
has  imposed  on  so  many  good  people  —  the  sophistries  of 
truth  and  position,  and  the  last  expiring  remnants  of  feudal 
ism  and  barbarism.  I  know  of  no  more  touching  illustra 
tion  of  the  instinctive  appreciation  of  this  fact  in  the  Nation 
than  that  spectacle  which  the  advertising  columns  of  the 
newspapers  offer  in  the  many  resolutions  of  condolence  and 
sympathy  from  all  organizations  of  trades  and  workingmen, 
and  the  sorrowing  faces  of  the  mechanics  who  walked  in 
last  Wednesday's  procession. 

Even  as  the  martyrdom  of  this  great  and  good  man 
brought  him  down  to  the  level  of  the  humblest  soldier  who 
died  upon  the  battle-field  for  his  country,  so  the  common 
sympathy  of  our  loss  has  drawn  us  all  closer  together. 
Nor  has  the  great  law  of  compensation  failed  us  now ;  already 
we  can  fancy  our  national  atmosphere  is  cleared  by  a  peo 
ple's  tears,  and  the  soil  beneath  quickened  to  a  more 
spontaneous  yielding.  Leaving  out  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  of  our  great  sorrow,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  any 
event  which  could  bring  thirty  millions  of  people  in  solemn 
and  closer  relations  to  their  God  is  not  altogether  profitless. 
Perhaps  it  was  necessary  that  we  of  the  North,  engaged  in 
peaceful  avocations,  who  had  never  really  appreciated  the 
magnitude  of  our  soldiers'  sacrifice,  should  be  thus  brought 
to  a  nearer  contemplation  of  violent  death ;  that  we  who 
read  of  the  slaughter  of  twenty  and  thirty  thousand  men 
with  scarcely  a  tremor  of  the  voice  or  quickened  pulse, 
should  be  stricken  into  speechless  tears  and  sorrow  by  the 
death  of  a  single  man.  Knowing  this,  I  believe  that  our 
Nation  stands  to-day  nobler  and  purer  in  faith  and  principle 
than  ever  before  since  the  April  sunshine  glanced  brightly 


OUR  LAST  OFFERING  143 

on  the  bloody  dews  and  green  sward  of  Lexington,  and  be 
lieving  thus,  can  echo  the  poet's  tribute  to  one  who  passed 
away  but  a  short  year  before,  and  perhaps  stood  first  to 
welcome  the  martyred  hero  :  — 

"Mingle,  0  bells,  along  the  western  slope, 
With  your  deep  toll  a  sound  of  faith  and  hope ! 
Droop  cheerily,  0  banners,  halfway  down, 
From  thousand-masted  bay  and  steepled  town; 
Let  the  deep  organ,  with  its  loftiest  swell, 
Lift  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  land  and  tell 
That  the  brave  sower  saw  his  ripened  grain." 


EAELY  CALIFOBNIAN   SUPEESTITIONS 1 

No  one,  in  looking  over  the  ancient  chronicles  of  Cali 
fornia,  can  fail  being  struck  by  the  important  part  which 
the  Devil  played  in  the  earlier  settlement  of  the  country. 
Without  wishing  to  detract  from  his  performances  during 
the  American  occupation,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  passed 
out  of  history  as  an  individual,  and  merged  into  an  abstract 
principle.  In  the  good  old  days  of  Junipero,  however,  he 
was  distinguished  by  an  active  personality  and  a  consistent 
malevolence.  He  did  not  compromise  with  sanctity  as  in 
these  degenerate  days.  He  plagued  the  good  fathers  sorely, 
and  kept  them  in  hot,  or  rather  holy,  water,  all  the  time. 
His  open  hostility  was  a  matter  of  common  report.  It  is 
true  that  skeptics  assert  that  the  ascetic  habits,  privations, 
and  lonely  vigils  of  these  monkish  missionaries  prepared 
them  for  singular  visions  and  trancelike  experiences ;  that 
the  bleak  plains  and  dense  forests,  habited  only  by  raven 
ous  beasts,  might  have  easily  been  transformed  into  a  lurk 
ing-place  for  the  Enemy  of  Souls,  and  that  the  misfortunes 
and  trials,  common  to  the  pioneer,  might  have  seemed  in 
this  instance  of  special  and  personal  origin. 

The  metamorphoses  of  the  Fiend  were  varied  and  start 
ling.  He  had  made  his  appearances  as  a  bear  on  the  rocky 
fastnesses  of  Mount  Diablo.  He  had  assumed  the  figure 
of  a  dissolute  whaler  seated  upon  a  sand  hill  near  the  Mission 
Dolores,  who  harpooned  belated  travelers.  He  had  held 
high  revel  at  Point  Diablo  with  a  phantom  boat's  crew  of 
Sir  Francis  Drake.  Although  most  of  these  transforma- 
1  Californian,  December  2,  1865. 


EARLY  CALIFORNIAN  SUPERSTITIONS  145 

tions  were  done  with  an  eye  to  business,  he  occasionally 
unbent  himself  in  pure  exuberance  of  mischief. 

It  is  related  that  one  evening,  Juanita,  an  old  woman 
who  dwelt  beyond  the  present  city  limits,  while  looking 
after  her  poultry,  heard  the  faint  chirping  of  little  chickens 
in  the  brush  beyond  the  house.  Following  the  sound,  she 
presently  saw  on  the  road  before  her  a  young  brood,  appar 
ently  just  hatched.  The  old  woman  called  to  them,  but 
they  fled  from  her  and  the  grain  she  cast  before  them.  She 
followed.  In  the  eagerness  of  the  chase,  she  quite  forgot 
the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  the  distance  she  was  straying, 
and  at  last  came  upon  a  black  misshapen  figure  sitting  in 
the  road,  under  whose  batlike  wings  the  brood  quickly 
nestled.  The  figure  called  to  her,  and  offered  her  one  of 
a  number  of  eggs  on  which  it  was  sitting.  Juanita,  who 
was  not  lacking  in  courage  or  enthusiasm  as  a  poultry 
fancier,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  accepted  the  present, 
upon  which  the  figure  vanished.  The  story  goes  on  to 
say  that  Juanita  placed  the  egg  under  a  setting  hen,  who 
in  due  time  hatched  out  a  fine  young  Shanghai.  As  the 
newcomer  waxed  in  size  and  strength,  he  developed  extra 
ordinary  fighting  qualities.  In  less  than  a  week  he  killed 
off  the  old  Senora's  poultry,  and  challenged  every  cock  in 
the  neighborhood.  Extending  his  depredations  to  the 
neighboring  hen-yards,  he  was  finally  killed  and  eaten  by 
Incarnacion  Briones,  a  luckless  Indian.  The  most  singular 
part  of  the  story  is  yet  to  come.  It  is  gravely  stated 
that  a  few  days  after  eating  the  mysterious  game-cock,  In 
carnacion  startled  the  worshipers  at  the  Mission  Church  by 
flapping  his  arms  and  crowing  like  a  cock  during  high  mass, 
and  that,  although  naturally  of  a  timid  and  inoffensive  dis 
position,  he  began  to  exhibit  belligerent  symptoms,  and 
after  beating  furiously  one  half  the  population,  was  finally 
dispatched  by  one  Dominguez  Robles,  a  valiant  soldier  at 
the  Presidio. 


146  EARLY  CALIFORNIAN   SUPERSTITIONS 

Equally  gratuitous  but  less  pleasant  in  result  was  the  ex 
ploit  of  the  Evil  One  at  the  Mission  of  San .  The  cir 
cumstance  of  the  event  being  still  fresh  in  the  memories  of 
many  native  Californians,  for  certain  reasons  proper  names 
are  omitted  from  this  veracious  chronicle.  One  moonlit 
evening  as  a  few  youthful  Senoritas  were  lounging  upon  that 
open  colonnade  or  gallery  which  is  a  familiar  appurtenance 
of  all  Spanish  adobe  houses,  they  were  startled  by  the  tramp 
ing  of  horses'  hoofs.  The  elder  members  of  the  family  were 
visiting  the  home  of  a  distant  neighbor ;  it  was  too  early  for 
their  return,  the  road  was  seldom  traveled,  and  the  unusual 
sound  naturally  excited  fear  and  suspicion.  As  they  looked 
across  the  road  toward  the  old  Mission  Chapel,  whose  white 
washed  gable  the  moonlight  brought  out  with  vivid  distinct 
ness,  they  saw  to  their  infinite  horror  a  tall  figure,  mounted 
on  a  white  horse,  issue  from  the  heavily  barred  door  and 
gallop  furiously  down  the  road.  A  moment,  and  the  horse 
and  rider  clothed  in  a  mysterious  light,  were  visible ;  the 
rushing  wind  which  attended  his  furious  progress  fanned  their 
blanched  cheeks  as  he  passed,  but  in  the  next  instant  he  had 
disappeared.  One  of  the  party  avers  that  she  distinctly 
saw  him  melt  away  as  he  crossed  a  little  brook  over  which 
a  few  planks  were  laid,  and  that  he  never  reached  the  other 
side,  but  when  or  how  he  disappeared  has  never  been  dis 
tinctly  settled.  The  popular  belief  that  evil  spirits  cannot 
pass  over  a  stream  of  running  water  might  seem  to  obtain 
in  this  instance,  but  as  the  spirit  is  alleged  to  have  been 
that  of  a  former  ranchero  who  was  a  hard  drinker,  it  has 
been  argued  with  some  show  of  reason  that  the  only  stream 
he  could  not  pass  would  have  been  one  of  whiskey,  and  that 
the  theory  is  untenable. 

It  is  said  that  in  opposition  to  the  extension  of  the  do 
main  of  the  Holy  Church,  the  Devil  figured  in  some  of  the 
earlier  land  grants,  but  as  it  is  doubtful  to  what  extent  su 
perstition  has  become  blended  with  contemporary  history, 


EARLY  CALIFORNIA!*  SUPERSTITIONS  147 

I  am  compelled  to  pass  over  certain  wild  legends  connected 
with  the  prices  paid  by  some  landowners  for  their  property, 
and  the  peculiar  construction  of  their  title-deeds,  to  come 
to  a  story  which,  although  of  comparatively  recent  origin, 
seems  to  possess  all  the  features  of  the  early  California 
legend.  The  names  are,  of  course,  fictitious. 

For  some  time  after  the  American  occupation,  the  lower 
country  was  infested  with  strolling  desperadoes,  who  had 
hung  on  the  skirts  of  the  war,  sustaining  themselves  by  in- 
discriminate  pillage,  and  who,  in  the  chaotic  state  of  society 
which  followed  peace,  availed  themselves  of  the  fears  and 
weaknesses  of  the  country  people.  The  sparsely  settled 
districts,  where  the  ranches  were  leagues  apart,  the  lonely 
roads  over  which  the  expressman  passed  but  once  a  week, 
afforded  these  ruffians  ample  opportunity  for  lawless  out 
rage. 

The  rancho  of  Pedro  Feliz  was  situated  in  one  of  those 
lonely  localities;  it  was  a  low,  one-story  adobe,  with  pro 
jecting  eaves  and  galleries.  Its  occupants  at  the  time  of  this 
story  consisted  of  the  family,  seven  in  number,  and  Pachita 
Gomez,  a  young  Senorita,  who  was  a  visitor.  Pachita  was 
a  good  girl  and  a  devout  Catholic.  She  went  to  mass  regu 
larly,  to  matins  and  prime,  and  never  forgot  her  saint's  day. 
Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  her  conscientious  fulfillment  of  her 
religious  duties  that  her  patron  saint  watched  over  her  with 
such  care  —  but  I  anticipate  my  story.  One  night  Pachita 
retired  early  to  her  bedroom;  lighting  a  consecrated  taper  be 
fore  a  little  crucifix,  she  opened  her  missal  and  began  her  even 
ing  prayer.  She  had  scarcely  reached  the  middle  of  her  first 
supplicatory  sentence  before  she  felt  a  breath  of  warm  air 
upon  her  cheek,  and  her  candle  went  out.  She  lighted  it 
again  and  recommenced  her  prayer,  when  the  same  warm 
current  swept  by  her  cheek  and  —  puff  —  the  candle  was 
blown  out  a  second  time.  Pachita  rose,  a  little  pettishly, 
from  her  knees,  carefully  examined  the  door  and  the  win- 


148  EARLY  CALIFORNIAN  SUPERSTITIONS 

dow,  which  was  covered  with  a  strip  of  cotton  cloth  that 
served  as  curtains  by  night,  and,  moving  her  candle  and 
crucifix  to  another  part  of  the  apartment,  once  more  began 
her  devotions.  The  candle  was  blown  out  a  third  time ! 
Pachita  now  became  alarmed,  but,  with  an  inward  prayer  to 
her  patron  saint,  she  took  a  vase  of  holy  water,  and  after 
sprinkling  and  purifying  the  apartment  relit  her  votive  taper 
and  again  addressed  herself  to  her  orisons.  Alas  for  the 
efficacy  of  the  blessed  fluid  !  a  rush  of  warm  air  by  her  cheek, 
and  —  puff !  —  the  candle  was,  for  the  fourth  time,  extin 
guished.  There  is  a  limit,  however,  to  human  confidence, 
even  in  holy  water  and  prayer.  Pachita  dropped  her  smok 
ing  taper,  and  hastily  wrapping  a  shawl  around  her  head, 
rushed  from  the  house.  She  did  not  stop  to  take  leave  of 
its  inmates.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  a  tenement  in  which  the 
Devil  was  so  much  at  home  was  no  place  for  a  virtuous 
young  woman.  The  night  was  dark  and  windy,  but  still 
Pachita  fled  onward.  Buoyed  up  by  faith,  which  seemed 
to  return  to  her  proportionately  as  she  increased  her  distance 
from  the  house,  she  actually  reached,  otherwise  unassisted, 
her  own  house,  at  least  ten  miles  away.  Pachita  did  not 
disclose  her  diabolical  experience,  but  assigned  as  a  reason 
for  her  sudden  departure  the  presence  of  two  rough-looking 
and  mysterious  strangers,  who  had  claimed  her  friend's  hos 
pitality  for  the  night.  A  few  days  passed,  and  the  return 
ing  courier  from  San  Luis  Obispo  brought  fearful  news.  A 
traveler,  passing  by  on  the  morning  after  Pachita' s  midnight 
flight,  found  the  door  of  the  house  open,  and  entering,  dis 
covered  the  lifeless  bodies  of  the  murdered  family.  The 
house  had  been  pillaged  and  stripped,  and  the  mysterious 
strangers  had  fled. 

What  connection  there  was  between  the  evil  spirit  who 
blew  out  Pachita's  taper  and  the  material  villains  who 
achieved  the  massacre,  cannot  be  distinctly  ascertained. 
There  are  skeptics  who,  in  the  face  of  these  notorious  facts, 


EARLY  CALIFORNIAN  SUPERSTITIONS  149 

sneer  at  the  experience  of  the  young  girl  as  illusive  and 
fabulous.  But  as  these  heretical  losels  go  even  so  far  as  to 
disbelieve  in  the  existence  of  the  Devil  altogether,  their  opin 
ions  can  weigh  but  little  in  comparison  to  the  convictions  of 
consistent  Catholics. 


POPULAR  BIOGEAPHIES1 

SELF-MADE    MEN    OF    OUR   DAY 
NO.    1.       SYLVESTER    JAYHAWK 

THE  birth  and  parentage  of  the  subject  of  our  sketch  is 
involved  in  some  obscurity.  If  we  may  ask  for  Homer 
some  credit,  from  the  fact  that  five  cities  claimed  the  honor 
of  his  birthplace,  a  decent  respect  is  due  to  our  hero,  whose 
parentage  is  alleged  to  have  been  divided  among  as  many 
individuals.  The  name  of  "  Jay  hawk  "  cannot  be  traced 
beyond  the  present  possessor,  but,  as  the  peculiar  and  ardu 
ous  nature  of  his  putative  father's  pursuit  often  rendered  an 
alias  necessary,  this  fact  should  not  militate  against  the 
antiquity  of  the  family.  It  is  believed  that,  in  conformity 
with  an  aboriginal  custom,  the  title  of  "  Jayhawk  "  might 
have  been  bestowed  on  our  hero  in  recognition  of  certain 
accipitrine  qualities  which  he  possessed  in  common  with 
that  energetic  but  ingenious  fowl. 

Of  his  early  boyhood  we  know  but  little.  That  it  was 
entirely  devoid  of  interest,  or  of  a  prophetic  nature,  we  have 
every  reason  to  believe.  "I  disremember,"  said  Mr.  Jay- 
hawk,  in  conversation  with  a  high  county  official  a  few  days 
previous  to  his  decease,  —  "I  disremember  much  before  I 
shot  a  nigger.  It  was  in  Missouri,  when  I  was  about  four 
teen.  I  had  no  call  to  kill  him  in  partikler,"  he  repeated, 
thoughtfully  ;  "  he  was  worth  more  'n  three  hundred  dollars, 
and  the  old  man  kinder  fancied  him."  The  tender  and  regret 
ful  manner  in  which  Mr.  Jayhawk  was  accustomed  to  allude 
l  Californian,  May  12,  1866. 


POPULAR  BIOGRAPHIES  151 

to  this  act  of  boyish  folly  furnishes  us  a  convincing  proof 
of  that  cautious  judgment  and  economical  application  of 
power  which  distinguished  him  in  after  years.  He  had 
"no  call"  to  kill  this  helpless  African;  his  older  and  more 
critical  judgment,  looking  back  upon  an  active  and  not 
altogether  useless  life,  saw  much  to  regret  in  this  gratui 
tous  and  reckless  waste  of  destructive  energy.  How  many 
of  us  have  been  guilty  of  committing  some  indiscretion  for 
which  we  had  "no  call";  how  few  of  us  have  had  the  sin 
cerity  to  regret  it  as  frankly  and  openly  as  the  truthful 
Jayhawk. 

We  follow  young  Sylvester  from  his  paternal  home  to  the 
State  of  Kansas.  With  no  other  property  than  a  knife  and 
pistol,  he  early  faced  the  cold  world  and  began  his  career. 
Even  the  horse  he  rode  was  not  his  own,  but  borrowed  per 
manently  from  a  neighbor.  An  incident  of  his  departure, 
which  he  was  fond  of  relating,  beautifully  illustrates  the 
depths  of  maternal  affection,  and  the  prophetic  promptings 
of  a  mother's  heart.  "As  I  rode  away,  the  old  woman  heaved 
arter  me  what  I  reckoned  was  a  rock.  I  picked  it  up  and 
found  it  was  a  paper  parsil.  That  'ere  parsil  I  have  kept 
to  this  day."  On  being  interrogated  as  to  its  contents, 
Mr.  Jayhawk,  with  that  quaint  humor  which  was  peculiar 
to  him,  would  reply,  "  It  war  n't  a  Bible.  It  was  an  old 
deck  of  the  old  man's — the  identical  deck  of  keerds  with 
which  he  won  Sam  Handy's  colt  and  niggers."  Some  com 
mentators  have  looked  upon  this  act  of  the  maternal  Jay- 
hawk  as  ill-advised  and  perhaps  indiscreet.  But  who  shall 
fathom  the  mysterious  logic  of  a  mother's  heart?  Perhaps 
some  instinctive  premonition  of  his  future  occupation  —  per 
haps  the  mere  desire  to  gratify  a  beloved  son  —  determined 
this  gift.  It  is  certain  that  Sylvester  never  forgot  it,  and 
when,  returning  a  few  years  later  in  his  professional  capa 
city,  he  burned  up  the  family  homestead  and  both  of  his 
parents,  he  seems  to  have  experienced  some  regret  on  gazing 


152  POPULAR  BIOGRAPHIES 

at  the  remains  of  Mrs.  Jayhawk.  "  She  was  always  good 
to  me,"  he  remarked  to  a  reverend  gentleman  with  whom 
he  conversed  some  days  before  his  death,  "  and  we  found 
no  money  on  her.  I  could  n't  help  thinking  about  her  giv 
ing  me  them  keerds,  and  how  foolish  it  was  in  me  to  have 
forgotten  that  she  kept  her  money  in  an  old  stocking." 

In  Kansas,  our  hero  seems  to  have  taken  a  partner  in 
the  prosecution  of  his  profession,  and  to  have  connected 
himself  with  the  celebrated  Colonel  McSnaffle.  But  the 
self-reliant  disposition  and  independent  character  of  Jayhawk 
could  not  long  brook  the  alliance.  In  an  address  to  a  com 
mittee  of  the  citizens  of  Lawrence,  who  waited  upon  him 
beyond  the  confines  of  the  town,  Sylvester  alluded  to  the 
circumstances  of  his  separation  from  Colonel  McSnaffle. 
"  When  we  found  we  couldn't  get  along  together,  we  agreed 
to  divide  our  money  and  separate.  I  counted  out  three 
hundred  dollars  apiece,  and  divided  the  weapons.  McSnaffle 
wanted  to  give  me  five  hundred,  and  take  the  weapons  him 
self.  But,"  says  Mr.  Jayhawk,  with  playful  irony,  "I 
did  n't  see  it.  We  then  shook  hands  and  parted  like  men, 
each  man  a-walking  backwards  until  he  was  out  of  rifle 
shot.  Being  in  a  hurry,  I  kinder  forgot  myself  and 
turned  my  back  too  soon,  and  when  I  faced  round  again, 
he  had  me  covered !  He  was  a  mighty  smart  man,"  he 
added,  in  a  tone  not  entirely  free  from  emotion;  "and 
when  I  see  that,  I  kinder  felt  sorry  we  had  separated." 
Mr.  Jayhawk  seldom  spoke  of  McSnaffle  save  in  the 
highest  terms,  and  cheerfully  bore  evidence  —  on  behalf 
of  the  State  —  in  regard  to  McSnaffle's  professional  zeal 
and  character. 

But  it  was  in  California  that  Sylvester  found  a  fitting 
theatre  for  the  exercise  of  his  talent,  and  his  career  may  be 
said  to  have  begun  with  his  entry  into  this  State.  His  advent 
was  modest,  and  free  from  display  or  ostentation.  The  re 
moval  of  several  employees  of  the  Overland  Mail  Company 


POPULAR  BIOGRAPHIES  153 

along  the  line,  the  quiet  absorption  of  valuable  mail-matter, 
the  permanent  withdrawal  of  stock  from  the  different  stations 
alone  marked  his  progress.  Talent  of  this  high  order  at 
once  commanded  respect;  he  was  retained  by  the  Overland 
Company  as  one  of  their  chief  overseers ;  the  unnecessary 
and  irregular  shedding  of  blood  was  in  a  measure  checked, 
and  an  authoritative  and  systematized  rule  of  slaughter  sub 
stituted  for  wild  and  sporadic  bloodshed.  "It  isn't  as 
lively  as  it  used  to  be,"  Mr.  Jayhawk  remarked  to  an  in 
telligent  traveler.  "  I  killed  ten  men  the  first  year  I  came 
to  the  Eocky  Eidge  station ;  but  there 's  a  kind  o'  falling 
off  in  sport."  Later,  during  a  temporary  sojourn  in  Virginia 
City,  he  was  enabled  to  prosecute  his  profession  with  less 
restraint.  Here  he  fell  a  victim  to  an  exalted  but  mis 
guided  ambition.  "  I  had  killed  twenty-nine  men  up  to 
the  fall  of  I860,"  he  writes;  "I  wanted  to  finish  the  year 
with  an  even  number.  So  I  killed  a  man  keerlessly  and 
without  forethought."  This  thoughtless  act  cost  Mr.  Jay- 
hawk  his  life.  A  brilliant  future  was  destroyed  in  a  mo 
ment  of  unguarded  enthusiasm. 

From  a  portrait  in  the  possession  of  a  distinguished  offi 
cial  of  Nevada,  Mr.  Jayhawk  seems  to  have  been  of  middle 
height.  His  presence  would  have  been  more  imposing  had 
his  person  exhibited  the  usual  quantity  of  organs  and  mem 
bers  which  the  conventionalities  of  society  seem  to  require. 
His  one  eye,  in  its  depth  and  lustre,  seemed  to  rebuke  the 
popular  prejudice  which  leaned  in  favor  of  two.  Another 
portrait  in  the  possession  of  the  Chief  of  Police  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  though  taken  anterior  to  the  Nevada  picture,  exhibits 
a  much  older  man,  and  one  whose  hair  is  of  entirely  differ 
ent  color.  It  is  a  singular  instance  of  the  difficulty  with 
which  facts  in  regard  to  prominent  men  are  obtained,  that 
the  same  number  of  fingers  do  not  exist  in  any  two  portraits 
of  Mr.  Jayhawk.  In  one  we  find  the  nose  entirely  absent. 
The  expression  of  our  hero's  face,  though  not  intelligent, 


154  POPULAR  BIOGRAPHIES 

was  mild  and  pleasing ;  the  loss  of  his  upper  lip  in  a  prize 
fight  on  the  banks  of  the  Carson  led  to  the  frequent  and 
cheerful  exhibition  of  his  front  teeth,  and  produced  an  open 
and  not  unpleasant  breadth  of  feature.  Mr.  Jayhawk, 
though  he  never  married,  left  a  large  family  to  mourn  his 
loss. 


STAGE-COACH   CONVERSATIONS  l 

SCENE  —  a  stage-coach  en  route  to  a  California  watering- 
place.  Driver,  expressman,  passengers,  etc.  A  gloomy 
silence  has  prevailed  for  ten  minutes,  during  which  time  a 
palpable  dust  pours  into  the  windows.  Passengers  perspire. 

Agricultural  Passenger  (looking  at  view,  and  addressing 
nobody  in  particular).  "  Them  'a  fine  oats." 

His  next  neighbor  (finding  the  other  passengers  glancing 
toward  him,  and  feeling  painfully  conscious  that  his  position 
makes  him  in  some  way  responsible  for  reprehensible  con 
duct  of  A.  P.,  but  knowing  nothing  about  grain),  feebly, 
"Yes." 

A  gloomy  silence,  broken  by  Agricultural  Passenger  (who 
has  been  encouraged  to  rashness  by  this  attention).  "  Too 
much  baird  [beard]  on  that  barley,  though." 

His  Next  Neighbor  (wishes  he  had  said  nothing,  but  find 
ing  the  other  passengers  looking  at  him  for  an  answer,  puts 
on  a  critical  expression).  "I  should  say  so  —  rather!" 

Elderly  Kustic  Female  (with  round  basket  containing  a 
suspicious  napkin),  vivaciously,  to  His  Next  Neighbor, 
41  Kanchin'  out  this  way  ?  " 

His  Next  Neighbor  (who  is  really  a  dry-goods  clerk,  but 
feels  that  he  has  somehow  lost  caste  with  the  other  passen 
gers  by  being  identified  with  Agricultural  Man),  sharply, 
"No,  ma'am!" 

Interval  of  five  minutes.  Passengers  stare  hard  out  of 
the  windows,  and  affect  to  be  intensely  interested  in  nothing. 
Dust  silently  pours  in  and  powders  them.  Perspiration. 

Elderly  Female  (who  has  been  revolving  His  Next  Neigh- 
1  Californian,  May  26,  1866. 


156  STAGE-COACH  CONVERSATIONS 

hoi's  answer,  and  is  dimly  conscious  of  having  made  some 
mistake),  soothingly,  "  Daguerreotypin  '  ?  " 

Passenger  in  linen  duster  and  passenger  in  straw  hat  hoth 
smile,  hut,  detecting  each  other,  repudiate  the  sympathy, 
and  frown  out  of  their  respective  windows.  Stage  crosses 
a  bridge. 

Father  of  Family  (confidentially  to  two  grown-up  daugh 
ters).  "Did  you  notice  the  peculiarly  hollow  sound  of  the 
horses'  hoofs  on  that  bridge  ?  " 

Agricultural  Passenger  (seeing  a  chance  to  put  in  his  oar), 
"  Rotton  timbers  ;  cave  in  some  day !  " 

Father  of  Family  (sternly  oblivious  of  A.  P.).  "  It  re 
minds  me  of  a  line  in  the  classics." 

Daughters  (together).      "  Yes  ?  " 

Father  of  Family  (begins  amid  a  general  silence). 
"  Quaduedante  putrem  —  no  — petrum  —  no  —  bless  my 
soul "  (finds  he 's  forgotten  it,  but  makes  a  wild  dash  to  a 
conclusion)  —  "  quatit  ungula  campum." 

Passengers  endeavor  to  look  as  if  they  understood  it. 
Gent  in  corner  smiles,  and  pulls  his  hat  over  his  eyes.  Gent 
in  white  choker  audibly  repeats  the  quotation  correctly. 
Father  of  Family  resolves  never  to  quote  again  in  mixed 
company.  Agricultural  Passenger  sets  him  down  as  a  for 
eigner. 

Pretty  Girl  (to  her  young  man).  "  What 's  that  he 's 
saying  ?  " 

Young  Man  (not  wishing  to  commit  himself).  "  Some 
thing  from  Homer." 

Sharp  Young  Lady  (confidant  of  Pretty  Girl,  and  a  little 
vexed  at  somebody's  want  of  attention).  "  But  Homer  was 
a  Greek  Poet,  and  I've  seen  that  line  in  the  Latin  grammar." 

The  other  passengers  try  to  look  as  if  they  had  seen  it  in 
the  Latin  grammar,  too,  and  glance  superciliously  at  Father 
of  Family.  F.  of  F.  wishes  he  had  n't  said  anything.  Stage 
reaches  top  of  hill  and  comes  in  view  of  ocean. 


STAGE-COACH  CONVEKSATIONS  157 

Bride  (to  Bridegroom  in  back  seat,  on  wedding  trip). 
"How  lovely  the  ocean  looks! " 

Bridegroom  (who  wishes  to  show  that  he  can  quote  also, 
murmurs  in  an  undertone  as  if  to  himself).  "Break  — 
break  [stage  commences  to  go  downhill,  and  careens  fright 
fully] —Break." 

Elderly  Kustic  Female  (who  does  n't  recognize  Tennyson, 
but  is  "  timersom  ").  "  You  don't  think  there  is  any  danger 
of  breakin'  down,  do  you  ?  " 

Bridegroom :  — 

"On  thy  dark  gray  crags,  0  sea." 

Stage  clatters  so  frightfully  that  Bridegroom  is  obliged  to 
raise  his  voice  :  — 

"  And  I  would  that  my  soul  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me." 

Bridegroom  (to  himself,  finding  that  the  stage  has  sud 
denly  come  to  level  ground,  and  that  he  has  delivered  the 
concluding  lines  in  a  stentorian  voice  which  has  attracted 
every  eye  to  him).  "D n  it." 

Outside  Passenger  (confidentially,  to  expressman). 
"Drunk!" 

Dead  silence.  Several  passengers  (to  each  other).  "  How 
far  is  it  yet  ?  " 

General  depression. 

Agricultural  Passenger  (deliberately  to  His  Next  Neigh 
bor,  settling  himself  in  a  comfortable  position).  "In  the 
fall  of  '49  —  " 

His  Next  Neighbor  (to  expressman,  nervously).  "  How 
far  did  you  say  ?  " 

Driver  (suddenly).     "  Mugginsville !     Change  Horses ! " 


THE  PIONEERS   OF   "  FORT Y-NINE » * 

I  AM  not  familiar  with  the  details  of  the  Roman  occupa 
tion  of  Britain  —  my  memory  being  under  obligations  to  the 
opera  of  Norma  for  freshening  on  that  point  —  but  I  doubt 
not  that  a  society  of  British  Pioneers  was  early  formed  by 
the  invaders.  That  they  knocked  down  a  few  of  the  old 
Druid  temples  and  glorified  themselves ;  that  the  morning 
paper  alluded  to  the  breaking-up  of  a  rotten  old  galley  as 
"  another  landmark  gone/'  no  one  familiar  with  high  Roman 
civilization  and  the  manners  of  that  imperious  race  can  for 
a  moment  doubt.  That  they  made  a  distinction  between 
the  different  dates  of  their  galleys'  arrival,  awarding  a  higher 
honor  to  the  Ninth  Legion  than  the  Tenth  seems  equally 
probable.  No  doubt  the  immediate  descendants  of  Adams, 
the  original  mutineer,  regard  themselves  as  better  than  the 
other  Pitcairn's  Islanders.  The  thrilling  question,  there 
fore,  whether  the  California  Pioneers,  who  came  in  the  fall 
of  1849  shall  admit  to  equal  privileges  the  people  who  came 
in  the  spring  of  1850,  is  no  new  one.  For  my  part,  I  — 
albeit  not  a  Pioneer  —  incline  to  the  views  of  the  aristocrats 
of  "  Forty-nine."  If  we  have  not  the  distinction  of  pri 
ority,  what  have  we  ?  The  mere  fact  of  one's  coming  to 
California,  although  doubtless  commendable,  is  still  too  com 
mon  for  extra  distinction.  As  the  Pioneers,  unlike  the 
Puritans  of  New  England,  the  Huguenots  of  South  Carolina, 
the  Cavaliers  of  Virginia,  or  even  the  Mormons  of  Salt  Lake, 
did  not  emigrate  for  conscience'  sake,  but  purely  from  pecu 
niary  motives,  what  claim  have  they  for  distinction  if  that 
of  priority  be  left  out  ?  If  we  are  to  have  an  aristocracy, 
1  Overland  Monthly,  August,  1868. 


THE  PIONEEKS  OF  "FOKTY-NINE"  159 

this  seems  to  have  about  as  sensible  a  foundation  as  most  of 
those  found  in  a  Heralds7  College.  To  be  proud  of  one's 
ancestor  because  he  arrived  in  San  Francisco  on  the  last  day 
of  December,  1849,  is  not  a  bit  more  ridiculous  than  to 
honor  him  because  he  came  to  England  after  the  battle  of 
Hastings.  The  passenger  list  of  the  steamer  California,  as 
a  passport  to  celebrity,  is  only  a  trifle  more  snobbish  than 
the  roll  of  Battle  Abbey.  The  origin  of  some  of  the  oldest 
families  of  England,  and  what  will  be  some  of  the  oldest  of 
California,  are  equally  ignoble.  Let  us  by  all  means  cling 
to  the  distinction  of  "Forty-nine."  It  is  true  that  it  may 
not  have  been  a  poetical  era  ;  it  is  true  that  it  may  not  have 
been  a  heroic  era  ;  it  may  have  been  a  hard,  ugly,  unwashed, 
vulgar,  and  lawless  era;  but  of  such  are  heroes  and  aris 
tocracies  born.  Three  hundred  years,  and  what  a  glamour 
shall  hang  about  it !  How  the  painters  shall  limn  and  the 
poets  sing  these  picturesque  vagabonds  of  "  Forty -nine  "  ; 
how  romantic  shall  become  the  red  shirts,  how  heroic  the 
high  boots  of  the  Pioneers !  What  fancy-dress  balls  shall 
be  given  then,  and  how  the  morning  journals  shall  tell  of 
Mr.  F.'s  distinguished  appearance  as  a  "  Pioneer  of  '  Forty- 
nine.'  r'  A  thousand  years,  and  a  new  Virgil  sings  the 
American  .ZEneid  with  the  episode  of  Jason  and  the  Cali 
fornia  golden  fleece,  and  the  historians  tell  us  it  is  a  myth ! 
Laugh,  my  Pioneer  friends,  but  your  great-great-great-great 
grandchildren  shall  weep  reverential  tears.  History,  as  was 
said  of  martyrdom,  is  "  mean  in  the  making,"  but  how  heroic 
it  becomes  in  the  perspective  of  five  centuries !  How  we 
once  loved  Sir  John  Holland  and  Sir  Reginald  De  Koye. 
And  yet  we  know  now  that  they  were  unpleasant  company 
at  table.  Did  the  suspicion  ever  cross  our  minds  that  the 
Knights  Templar  seldom  changed  their  linen,  and  that  the 
knights-errant  must  have  smelt  of  the  horse,  horsey  ? 

Though  there  may  not  be  much  that  is  picturesque  or 
heroic  in  the  Pioneers  of  "  Forty-nine,"  still  I  am  far  from 


160  THE   PIONEERS  OF  "FORTY-NINE" 

discouraging  anything  that  in  our  too  skeptical  and  material 
civilization  points  to  reverence  of  the  past.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  well  if  the  bones  of  those  old  Pioneers  who  have  been 
dust  these  fifteen  years  were  collected  from  Yerba  Buena 
Park  and  not  disseminated  gratuitously  over  the  city.  And 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  are  some  traditions  of  the 
soil  —  some  few  guideboards  to  older  history  —  that  are 
worthy  of  respect.  Besides  the  Spanish  archives  of  Cali 
fornia  —  consulted  only  for  gain  and  too  often  interpreted 
by  fraud  —  we  have  the  old  Missions  —  those  quaintly 
illuminated  Missals  of  the  Holy  Church.  Here,  too,  are 
those  rude  combinations  of  the  bucolic  and  warlike  expres 
sion  of  a  past  age  — the  Presidios.  One  —  a  few  miles  from 
the  plaza  of  San  Francisco  —  was  the  scene  of  as  sweet  and 
as  sad  a  love-story  as  ever  brought  the  tear  of  sensibility  to 
the  eye  of  beauty.  Is  it  possible  you  "do  not  remember  it  ? 

Dona  Concepcidn  Arguello  was  the  commandante's  daugh 
ter.  She  was  young,  and  the  century  was  young,  when  Yon 
Resanoff,  the  Russian  diplomat,  came  to  the  Presidio  to  treat 
with  the  commander  in  amity  and  alliance.  But  the  sensitive 
diplomat  began  by  falling  in  love  with  Dona  Concepcidn 
and  this  complicated  affairs,  and  Yon  Resanoff,  being  of  the 
Greek  Church,  found  that  his  master  the  Czar  must  ratify 
both  alliances.  So  he  bade  adieu  to  the  weeping  Concep 
cidn,  and  sailed  away  to  Russia  to  get  his  master's  permis 
sion  to  be  happy.  He  broke  his  neck,  and  did  not  return! 

What  do  young  ladies  do  in  such  circumstances  ?  In 
novels  they  pine  away  and  die  ;  sometimes  they  take  that 
last  desperate  revenge  of  womanhood  —  marry  somebody 
else  and  make  him  unpleasantly  conscious  of  their  sacrifice. 
In  poetry  they  follow  the  missing  lover,  like  that  beautiful 
but  all  too  ghostlike  Evangeline.  But  here  was  a  young  lady 
of  flesh  and  blood,  if  you  please,  who  had  read  little  romance 
and  certainly  had  no  model.  She  did  not  become  delirious, 
and  beat  the  wall,  like  Haidee,  "with  thin,  wan  fingers." 


THE  PIONEERS  OF  "FORTY-NINE"  161 

She  did  not  dress  herself  in  male  attire  and  wander  away ; 
she  did  not  walk  the  shore  at  unseemly  hours,  decollete  and 
with  hair  flying.  She  waited.  She  had  that  sublime  virtue, 
patience,  which  the  gods  give  to  these  feeble  creatures  — 
despite  all  that  your  romancers  say.  She  did  not  refuse  her 
victuals.  Her  little  white  teeth  were  not  unfamiliar  with 
the  tortilldj  and  she  still  dressed  becomingly  and  looked 
after  the  charms  that  Von  Resanoff  admired.  Sir  George 
Simson  saw  her  in  '42,  and  she  was  still  fine-looking.  "  She 
took,"  says  the  chronicle,  "  the  habit  but  not  the  vows  of  a 
nun,  and  ministered  to  the  sick."  Poor  Concepcidn  !  that 
one  exception  was  the  piteous  evidence  of  a  lifelong  faith. 

Did  she  suffer?  I  think  she  did,  in  a  quiet  way,  as 
most  women  suffer.  Your  true  heroine  goes  about  her  round 
of  household  duties,  outwardly  calm.  I  think  this  brave 
little  heart  trembled  of  nights  when  the  wind  moaned  around 
the  white  walls  of  the  Presidio,  and  the  rain  splashed  drea 
rily  in  the  courtyard.  I  think  those  honest  eyes  dilated 
when  the  solitary  trader  swept  into  the  gate,  and  filled  with 
moisture  when  she  found  it  brought  him  not.  There  are 
nights  and  days,  too,  in  this  blissful  climate  that  are  as  irri 
tating  to  old  heart-sores  as  they  are  to  mucous  membranes. 
In  that  chill  hour  of  twilight  when  the  Angelus  rings,  one 
may  shudder  to  think  of  Concepcidn. 

It  is  said  she  did  not  fairly  know  her  lover's  fate  until 
Sir  George  Simson  told  her.  I  doubt  it.  Whether  revealed 
to  her  inner  consciousness  or  gathered  from  the  lips  of  some 
dying  sailor  at  whose  side  she  ministered,  she  knew  it,  and 
kept  it  to  herself  as  part  of  the  burden.  And  now  she  has 
followed  her  lover,  and  the  treaty  of  alliance  she  was  to  grace 
has  been  made  by  other  hands.  But  are  not  these  things 
told  in  the  chronicles  of  De  Nofras  and  Simson,  and  in  the 
pages  of  Eandolph  and  Tuthill  ? 


LESSONS  FKOM  THE  EARTHQUAKE 

On  the  morning  of  October  21, 1868,  a  destructive  earthquake  shook  the 
city  of  San  Francisco.  A  select  committee  of  bankers,  merchants,  and 
"leading  citizens"  visited  the  various  newspaper  offices  and  requested 
that  the  "  trembler  "  be  treated  as  lightly  as  possible  for  fear  that  it  would 
work  injury  to  California,  and  that  Eastern  people  might  be  frightened 
away  by  exaggerated  reports.  Bret  Harte's  amusement,  in  consequence, 
found  vent  in  the  following  editorial  which  appeared  in  the  November 
issue  of  the  Overland  Monthly. 

MUCH  has  been  written  about  the  lesson  of  this  earth 
quake.  Judging  from  the  daily  journals,  it  seems  to  have 
been  complimentary  to  San  Francisco.  In  fact,  it  has  been 
suggested  that,  with  a  little  more  care  and  preparation  on 
our  part,  the  earthquake  would  have  been  very  badly  dam 
aged  in  the  encounter.  It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  Nature 
should  know  the  limitation  of  her  strength  on  this  coast,  and 
it  is  equally  well  that  we  should  put  a  cheerful  face  on  our 
troubles.  But  the  truth  is  sometimes  even  more  politic. 
Very  demonstrative  courage  is  apt  to  be  suggestive  of  in 
ward  concern,  and  logic  is  necessary  even  in  averting  panics. 
It  makes  little  matter  how  much  we  assure  our  friends  that 
we  have  lost  nothing  by  this  convulsion,  if  our  method  of 
doing  so  strongly  suggests  that  we  have  not  yet  recovered 
our  reasoning  faculties. 

Yet,  while  there  remains  a  tendency  in  the  ink  to  leap 
from  the  inkstand,  and  the  blood  to  drop  from  the  cheeks, 
at  the  slightest  provocation,  the  conditions  are  hardly  favor 
able  for  calm  retrospect  or  philosophical  writing.  Theories 
that  the  next  second  of  time  may  explode,  speculations  that 
no  man  may  be  able  to  test,  are  at  such  moments  out  of 
place.  Enough  that  we  know  that  for  the  space  of  forty 
seconds  —  some  say  more  —  two  or  three  hundred  thousand 
people,  dwelling  on  the  Pacific  slope,  stood  in  momentary  fear 


LESSONS  FROM  THE  EARTHQUAKE  163 

of  sudden  and  mysterious  death.  As  we  are  not  studying 
our  commercial  "  lesson,"  we  shall  not  discuss  now  whether 
their  fears  were  or  were  not  justified  by  the  facts.  That 
they  were  for  the  moment  thrilled  by  this  sympathy  of  ter 
ror,  is  enough  for  the  pregnant  text  of  this  sermon.  In 
that  one  touch  —  or  rather  grip  —  of  Nature,  all  men  were 
made  kin.  What  matters,  0  Cleon !  thy  thousand  acres 
and  thy  palace  that  overshadows  this  humble  cot  ?  Thy 
hand — O  wretched  mendicant  on  my  doorstep  —  we  are  as 
one  on  this  trembling  footstool!  The  habitations  we  have 
built  unto  ourselves  and  our  gods  are  ours  no  longer  —  this 
blue  canopy  must  we  occupy  together.  How  spacious  it  is 
—  how  superior  to  those  fretted  roofs  we  called  our  home ! 
Free  of  those  walls  which  we  have  built  up  between  us,  let 
us  here  join  hands  once  and  ever  more  ! 

Did  we  utter  such  nonsense  as  this?  Not  if  we  remem 
ber  ourselves  rightly.  We  ran  like  cowards  —  as  the  best 
of  us  are  before  the  presence  of  the  unseen  power  —  in  the 
garments  that  were  most  convenient,  and  laughed  each  other 
derisively  to  scorn.  We  ran,  thinking  of  our  wives,  our 
children,  our  precious  things  and  chattels.  Did  we  not  ex 
perience  a  secret  satisfaction  when  we  thought  that  Jones's 
house  —  much  larger  and  finer  than  ours  —  would  be  a  ruin, 
too  ?  Did  we  not  think  that  we  should  be  saved  before 
Jones  ?  We  did.  We  had  learned  the  commercial  "  lesson  " 
thoroughly.  How  much  of  an  earthquake  will  it  take  to 
shake  out  of  us  these  conventionalities  of  our  life  ? 

But  it  seems  to  have  been  settled,  by  the  commercial  in 
stinct,  that  the  maximum  strength  of  an  earthquake  has 
been  reached.  The  shock,  it  is  true,  was  heavier  at  Hay- 
wards  and  San  Leandro;  but  it  has  also  been  settled,  in 
some  vague,  mysterious  way,  that  San  Francisco  will  never 
be  the  focus  of  any  great  disturbance.  It  is  also  stated, 
that  the  heaviest  shocks  and  the  ones  that  do  the  greatest 
damage  are  always  the  first  —  the  only  record  we  have  of 


164  LESSONS  FKOM  THE  EARTHQUAKE 

severe  Californian  earthquakes  to  the  contrary  notwith 
standing.  This  is  satisfying  to  the  commercial  mind,  \vhich, 
of  course,  deprecates  panic.  But  if  the  commercial  mind, 
consistent  with  its  statements,  still  continue  to  occupy  badly 
built  structures  on  "  made  ground,"  commerce  will  suffer. 
It  is  only  a  question  of  time.  The  commercial  statement  is 
useful  in  keeping  up  our  credit  abroad ;  but  one  of  the  cheap 
photographs  of  the  ruins  in  San  Francisco  and  San  Leandro, 
taken  by  the  sun  who  looked,  if  possible,  even  more  calmly 
on  the  whole  disaster  than  the  entire  Chamber  of  Com 
merce  —  one  of  these  photographs  in  an  Eastern  city  will, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  outweigh  the  commercial  circular,  although 
signed  by  the  most  influential  men. 

The  earthquake  had  no  lesson  that  has  not  been  taught 
before.  It  is  one  of  the  feeble  egotisms  of  our  nature  — 
from  which  Californians  are  not  exempt  —  to  look  upon  this 
class  of  phenomena  as  freighted  with  a  peculiar  mission  for 
our  benefit  —  it  may  be  the  price  of  flour,  the  importance  of 
piling,  the  necessity  of  a  new  religion.  It  is  surprising  how 
little  we  know  of  the  earth  we  inhabit.  Perhaps  hereafter 
we  in  California  will  be  more  respectful  of  the  calm  men  of 
science  who  studied  the  physique  of  our  country  without 
immediate  reference  to  its  mineralogical  value.  We  may 
yet  regret  that  we  snubbed  the  State  Geological  Survey 
because  it  was  impractical.  There  was  something  intensely 
practical  in  the  awful  presence  in  which  we  stood  that 
morning  —  the  presence,  whose  record,  written  in  scar  and 
cliff,  these  men  had  patiently  transcribed.  We  know  little 
else.  It  need  not  frighten  us  to  accept  the  truth  fairly. 
We  are  not  relieved  of  the  responsibilities  of  duty,  because 
our  lot  is  cast  in  an  earthquake  country,  nor  shall  we  lose 
the  rare  advantages  it  offers  us,  in  obedience  to  the  great 
laws  of  Compensation.  We  pay  for  our  rare  immunities  in 
some  such  currency.  But  it  will  not  help  us  if  we  franti 
cally  deny  the  Law,  and  challenge  its  power. 


CHARLES   DICKENS 

The  following  editorial  was  hurriedly  written  by  Bret  Harte  on  the  day 
that  the  news  of  the  death  of  Dickens  reached  him.  He  was,  at  this  time, 
camping  out  in  the  California  foothills.  The  last  sheets  of  the  issue  of 
the  Overland  Monthly,  for  July,  1870,  already  edited  by  him,  were  going 
to  press.  He  telegraphed  to  San  Francisco  to  delay  the  publication,  and 
the  next  morning  this  editorial,  accompanied  by  his  well-knowu  poem, 
"Dickens  in  Camp,"  was  forwarded. 

OF  one  who  dealt  so  simply  and  directly  with  his  read 
er's  feelings  as  Charles  Dickens,  it  is  perhaps  fit  that  little 
should  be  said  that  is  not  simple  and  direct.  In  that  sense 
of  personal  bereavement  which  the  English -reading  world 
feels  at  his  death,  there  is  not  so  much  the  thought  of  what 
we  should  say  of  him,  as  what  he  has  said  of  us ;  not  how 
we  should  describe  his  Art,  but  how  he  has  depicted  our 
Nature.  And  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  world  is  so  con 
stituted  that  it  will  turn  from  finely  written  eulogies  to 
"David  Copperfield,"  or  the  "Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  to  in 
dulge  its  pathos  and  renew  its  love.  The  best  that  the  best 
of  us  could  say  of  him  could  not  give  this  real  man  the 
immortality  conferred  by  his  own  pen  upon  some  of  his 
humblest  creations. 

Indeed,  it  may  be  said  of  his  power  that  no  other  writer, 
living  or  dead,  ever  transfused  fiction  with  so  much  vitality. 
In  the  late  cartoon  by  Mr.  Eytinge,  where  "  Mr.  Pickwick  " 
reviews  the  characters  of  which  he  was  the  illustrious  pre 
decessor, —  a  cartoon  which  held  a  pathetic  prophecy  be 
neath  its  original  design,  —  there  is  no  finer  compliment 
can  be  made  to  the  greater  artist  than  that  the  lesser  one 
could  reproduce  them  with  the  fidelity  of  living  portraits. 
"Dick  Swiveler,"  "Captain  Cuttle,"  "Mr.  Dombey," 
"Micawber"  —  surely  these  are  not  puppets,  pulled  by  a 


166  CHARLES  DICKENS 

hand  that  has  lost  its  cunning  in  death,  but  living  acquaint 
ances,  who  have  merely  survived  their  introducer. 

Of  his  humor,  it  may  be  said  that  for  thirty  years  the 
world  has  accepted  it  as  its  own  —  as  the  articulate  voicing 
of  some  sense  of  fun  that  was  not  so  much  Mr.  Dickens's 
as  common  property.  A  humor  so  large  that  it  was  not 
restricted  to  the  eccentricity  of  animate  being,  but  found 
fun  in  inanimate  objects  —  in  drawers  "that  had  to  be 
opened  with  a  knife,  like  an  oyster, "  in  door-handles  that 
"  looked  as  if  they  wanted  to  be  wound  up,"  in  well-like 
parlors  "  where  the  visitor  represented  the  bucket "  ;  a  hu 
mor  that  was  a  delightful  and  innocent  pantheism,  and,  as 
in  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  invested  even  the  wind  with  jocu 
lar  sympathies.  The  reader  has  but  to  look  back  to  the 
limitations  of  the  humorists  of  a  preceding  age  to  appreciate 
what  the  world  gained  thirty  years  ago  in  the  wonderful 
spontaneity  of  Mr.  Dickens,  and  has  not  entirely  lost  now. 
For  its  influence  has  been  since  then  steadily  felt  in  litera 
ture  —  not  entirely  in  the  way  of  imitation,  but  in  the  recog 
nition  that  humor  is  nearly  akin  to  human  sympathy  and  love. 

Of  his  poetry  perhaps  the  best  that  can  be  said  is  that 
he  taught  us  by  his  prose  how  we  could  do  without  it ;  not 
only  through  the  delicate  beauty  of  his  conceptions,  but  in 
the  adaptation  of  his  style  to  his  thought,  and  the  musical 
procession  of  his  sentences.  Not  only  is  the  character  of 
"  Paul  Dombey  "  purely  poetical,  but  the  relations  of  sur 
rounding  objects  become  so,  in  the  clock  that  talks  to  him, 
the  sea  that  whispers  to  him,  the  golden  water  that  dances 
on  the  wall.  And  so  strongly  is  this  indicated  in  the  death 
of  "  Little  Nell,"  that  not  only  are  the  surroundings  brought 
into  actual  sympathy  with  her  fate,  but  at  the  last  the  very 
diction  falters,  and  trembles  on  the  verge  of  blank  verse.  Thia 
may  not  be  poetry  of  the  highest  order,  so  much  as  it  is 
perhaps  the  highest  order  of  prose  —  but  it  is  well  to  re 
member  that  it  began  with  Charles  Dickens. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  167 

Of  his  humanity,  it  is  pleasant  now  to  think.  He  was 
an  optimist,  without  the  disadvantage  of  being  also  a  phil 
osopher.  So  tender  were  his  judgments  and  so  poetic  his 
experience  that  the  villains  of  his  art  were  his  weakest  cre 
ations.  Not  only  in  the  more  obvious  philanthropic  con 
secration  of  his  stories,  —  the  exposition  of  some  public 
abuse,  or  the  portrayal  of  some  social  wrong,  —  but  in  his 
tender  and  human  pictures  of  classes  on  whom  the  world 
hitherto  had  bestowed  but  scant  sentiment,  was  he  truly 
great.  He  brought  the  poor  nearer  to  our  hearts.  He  had 
an  English  fondness  for  the  Hearth  —  making  it  the  theme 
of  one  of  his  sweetest  idyls  —  and  the  simple  joys  of  the 
domestic  fireside  found  no  finer  poet.  No  one  before  him 
wrote  so  tenderly  of  childhood,  for  no  one  before  him  carried 
into  the  wisdom  of  maturity  an  enthusiasm  so  youthful  —  a 
faith  so  boy-like.  In  his  practical  relations  with  the  public 
life  around  him,  he  was  a  reformer  without  fanaticism,  a 
philanthropist  without  cant.  Himself  an  offspring  of  the 
public  press,  he  stood  nearer  in  sympathy  with  its  best  ex 
pression  than  any  other  literary  man. 

And  all  that  is  mortal  of  him,  of  whom  this  may  be  fairly 
said,  lies  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Around  him  presses  the 
precious  dust  of  the  good  and  wise  —  men  who  were  great 
in  great  things,  who  conferred  fame  upon  their  island  and 
large  benefits  upon  mankind  —  but  none  who,  in  their  day 
and  time,  were  mourned  more  widely  than  he.  For  his 
grave  is  in  every  heart,  and  his  epitaph  on  every  hearth 
stone. 


LATER  PKOSE 

STOEIES 


AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 

IT  was  night  at  the  Soldiers'  Home.  Mr.  President  was 
tired,  Mr.  President  was  weary,  Mr.  President  was  bewil 
dered  and  bored.  As  he  tossed  upon  his  bed,  a  thousand 
tangled  recollections  of  that  day's  Executive  business  —  of 
office-giving,  of  proclamations,  of  suggestions,  of  advice,  of 
policy  —  knotted  themselves  in  his  brain.  "  If  Civil  Ser 
vice  Reform,"  he  murmured  vaguely,  "  were  carried  out  at 
Martin sburg,  and  Resumption  introduced  in  the  National 
Republican  Convention,  so  that  no  office-holder  could  pur 
sue  Mexican  raiders  into  their  own  territory  except  upon 
the  recognition  of  Chief  Joseph  by  the  Diaz  Government, 
why  — "  here  he  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber.  All  was 
quiet  in  the  mansion  and  the  surrounding  umbrage,  save  for 
the  occasional  amatory  howl  of  some  old  soldier,  and  the 
coy,  yet  playful,  "  Who  dat  dar,  now  ?  Leff  me  go,  dar," 
of  a  passing  female  Ethiop. 

The  noise  awoke  Mr.  President.  "  Old  soldiers  —  ah, 
my  veteran  friends  !  "  —  he  mused  for  a  moment ;  "  and  yet 
I  mind  me  now  that  in  my  boyhood  days  the  term  was  used 
to  define  a  wad  of  the  Nicotian  leaf  from  which  the  juice 
had  been  expressed.  Strange  that  the  epithet  should  have 
been  borrowed  from  the  just  and  honored  appellation  given 
to  aged  and  retired  defenders  of  the  Republic.  But,  bless 
me !  how  much  that  sentence  sounds  like  Evarts !  I  really 

am  catching  his  style.  Why,  d n  it  all !  Ah,  that 

oath,  too,  comes  from  an  unhallowed  intimacy  with  John 
Sherman.  I  must  stop  this  and  go  to  sleep." 

He  would  have  turned  over  and  gone  to  sleep,  but  his 
attention  was  at  this  moment  arrested  by  a  singular  light  in 


172  AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 

the  corner  of  his  bedchamber,  which  kept  increasing  in  bril 
liancy,  while  the  air  was  filled  with  a  strange  perfume  of 
Oriental  spices  and  attar  of  rose.  Gradually  a  figure  was  out 
lined  darkly  below  this  brilliancy,  which  Mr.  President  now 
perceived  came  from  an  enormous  diamond  aigrette  in  its 
turban.  The  stranger  was  clothed  in  Oriental  garb,  and  his 
deep  dark  eyes  and  glossy  black  beard  betrayed  his  Persian 
origin.  He  made  a  profound  salaam  to  the  President,  and 
in  a  low  but  musical  voice  said  :  — 

"I  am  Haroun  al-E-aschid. " 

"  From  Ohio  ? "  asked  the  President,  with  some  anima 
tion.  "  I  knew  an  H.  L.  Richards  of  Warren." 

"  From  Persia/'  responded  the  stranger. 

"  Then  I  must  refer  you  to  the  State  Department.  Mr. 
Evarts  takes  care  —  " 

"  My  business  is  with  you,"  replied  the  stranger  quietly. 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  there  are  no  vacancies  now,  and  by 
the  rules  of  Civil  Service  Keform  the  appointment  clerk 
must  refer  —  " 

"  Son  of  a  Giaour !     I  seek  no  office !  " 

The  President  rose  on  his  elbow.  "  May  I  trouble  you 
to  repeat  that  epithet  ?  " 

"  Son  of  a  Giaour !  " 

"  Well,  that  will  do.  Go  on !  "  And  the  President,  as 
he  lay  down  again,  said,  "  I  thought  you  said  something 


"  I  am  here  to  do  thee  a  service,  infidel  though  thou  art ! 
Thou  dost  not  remember  me,  and  yet  I  once  sat  the  wise 
yet  despotic  ruler  of  a  throne  that  upheld  the  gorgeous  East. 
Look  at  me  !  I  was  '  Commander  of  the  Faithful.'  " 

"I  regret  to  say,"  said  the  President,  "that  any  Kepub- 
lican  Political  Organization,  under  whatever  name,  renders 
its  chairman  unfit  to  hold  office." 

"  Son  of  Shitan,  hear  me  ! " 

"  Which  ?  »  said  the  President. 


AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID  173 

"  Son  of  Shitan,  listen  !  Marshalla !  Thou  shalt  hear 
me!  To-morrow  thou  goest  with  thy  prime  minister  to 
visit  thy  people,  to  observe  and  note  the  conduct  of  thy  ser 
vants  in  office,  to  repair  abuses,  to  punish  fraud,  to  right  the 
oppressed." 

"That  is  my  little  game —  Excuse  me,"  added  the 
President,  hastily,  as  he  muttered  to  himself,  "I  really 
must  drop  Devens ;  his  slang  will  ruin  me  yet." 

"  Yes,  but  how  goest  thou,  O  Kutherford,  the  Mighty? 
Why,  with  caravans  and  attendants,  with  Lightning,  the 
swift-footed,  before  thee,  to  announce  thy  coming;  with 
drums  and  cymbals,  with  shoutings  and  banquets." 

"  If  the  loyalty  and  affection  of  a  free  people  chooses  to 
express  itself  in  this  manner,"  said  the  President,  hiding  his 
blushing  face  beneath  the  coverlid,  "it  were  discourteous  to 
rebuke  —  " 

"  But  what  seest  thou  of  thy  people  ?  What  knowest 
thou  of  thy  slaves  and  servants  who  do  thy  bidding  ?  Is 
not  the  house  made  ready  against  thy  coming  ?  Are  not 
the  crippled  and  the  maimed  put  out  of  thy  sight  ?  Is  not 
the  wine-jar  hidden,  and  the  bag  of  dates  refilled  ?  What 
knowest  thou  of  thy  meanest  slave,  save  through  the  report 
of  his  master,  who  haply  is  but  fit  to  take  his  place  ?  Does 
corruption  invite  thee  to  view  its  black  deformity  ?  Do  the 
jackasses  that  defile  the  graves  of  the  just  caper  and  dance 
in  thy  presence  ?  Bismillah  !  " 

"  Go  slow,  old  man ;  go  slow !  "  The  President  again 
checked  himself,  and  muttered  that  he  really  must  cut  Mc- 
Crary. 

"I  was  once,  0  Frank  —  " 

"  Eutherford  !  Kutherford  B.,"  suggestingly  interrupted 
the  President. 

"  I  was  once,  0  Frank,  like  unto  thee.  I  was  once  ruler 
of  an  empire  that  I  knew  not  —  of  a  people  that  I  saw  not. 
I  was  as  a  dog  in  the  hands  of  my  slaves,  doing  but  their 


174  AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 

bidding,  seeing  with  their  eyes,  hearing  with  their  ears. 
One  night  I  bethought  me  to  walk  the  streets  of  my  capi 
tal,  disguised  as  a  simple  merchant,  accompanied  only  by 
my  faithful  Mesrour.  Thou  knowest  the  story.  Thou  re- 
memberest  the  iniquities  I  discovered,  the  wrongs  I  re 
dressed." 

"  Seems  to  me  I  do  remember  hearing  the  boys  say  some 
thing  about  it.  Well,  that  was  your  policy  —  I  mean  your 
idea  of  things." 

"  It  was  my  custom ;  it  became  my  glory.  I  was  a 
mighty  Caliph." 

"Well,  I'll  speak  of  it  in  Cabinet  meeting  to-morrow." 

"  Thou  wilt  not.  Thou  wilt  not  go  alone.  Unfortu 
nate  man,  thou  hast  not  even  a  Mesrour  thou  canst  trust !  " 

"  I  might  take  Fred  Douglass  with  me,"  pondered  the 
President;  "he'd  do  as  to  color,  and  his  functions  are 
pretty  much  the  same." 

"  Thou  wilt  go  alone  !  Thou  wilt  shave  thy  head,  —  thy 
beard,  I  mean,  —  and  in  the  disguise  of  a  Western  trader 
thou  wilt  visit  thy  officers  and  cadis,  thy  slaves  and  thy 
people.  Thou  wilt  hearken  to  their  speech,  observe  their 
acts,  and  wisdom  and  a  second  term  may  descend  on  thee. 
Farewell.  May  the  Prophet  console  thee  !  " 

The  light  of  his  diamond  aigrette  began  to  fade,  and 
he  himself  to  resolve  into  thin  air. 

"  Oh,  I  say !  See  here,  Eichards,  —  one  question  more." 
But  he  had  gone. 

"I  wonder  if  it  could  have  been  the  seltzer,"  muttered 
the  President,  as  he  turned  over  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  he  awoke  the  next 
morning.  But  the  Executive  face  was  set  with  a  certain 
resolution,  and,  in  putting  on  the  Executive  shirt,  an  occa 
sional  muttered  reference  to  the  condition  of  Executive 
buttons  escaped  his  tightly  drawn  lips.  Then  he  proceeded 
to  his  dressing-table,  and,  with  a  firm  hand,  shaved  off  that 


AN  AMERICAN  HABOUN  AL-EASCHID  175 

blond  beard,  which  had  been  one  of  his  most  distinguish 
ing  characteristics.  Then  from  a  secluded  closet  in  the  at 
tic  he  procured  a  pair  of  trousers  left  by  the  ex-President,  a 
waistcoat  belonging  to  the  lamented  Lincoln,  and  a  blue 
coat  with  brass  buttons,  originally  the  property  of  the  late 
James  Buchanan.  The  natural  wear  and  tear  of  these 
articles  had  been  repaired  by  the  sartorial  art  of  the  late 
Andrew  Johnson.  A  straw  hat,  inadvertently  left  by  the 
Secretary  of  State,  completed  his  disguise.  "  Four  dynasties 
look  down  upon  me,"  said  the  President  with  a  smile,  as 
he  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass ;  but  he  reflected,  "  I 
must  keep  that,  and  say  it  to  Evarts.  At  present  he  mono 
polizes  all  the  mots." 

After  inditing  a  few  lines  to  his  wife  and  private  secre 
tary,  saying  that  profound  affairs  of  State  took  him  for  a 
while  beyond  the  reach  of  newspaper  reporters,  he  de 
scended  the  back  stairs  and  speedily  found  himself  free  and 
unnoticed.  He  took  the  nearest  horse-car  to  the  Executive 
Mansion  and  stopped  to  look  up  at  the  great  white  edifice 
he  had  occupied,  and  thought  it  was  strange  that  it  had 
never  seemed  so  imposing  before.  Suddenly  a  voice  rang 
in  his  ears  :  — 

"  Get  off  them  flower-beds,  you  d d  old  buckeye, 

afore  I  bust  your  head." 

For  an  instant  the  President  forgot  his  incognito.  "  Do 
you  know  whom  you  address  ?  "  he  said  stiffly. 

"  Do  I  ?  I  reckon  !  You  's  one  of  them  Ohio  chaps, 
snoopin'  around  for  an  app'intment.  Your  father  's  second 
cousin  to  Mr.  Hayes's  grandfather,  ain't  he  ?  You  waz 
the  first  man  that  nominated  Hayes  for  Guv'ner,  ain't 
ye  ?  Do  I  know  yer  ?  Do  I  know  that  rig  ?  Look  at 
that  hat !  —  them  pants  !  O  git,  will  you  !  " 

"  Perhaps,"  thought  the  President,  as  he  moved  slowly 
away,  "  my  garments  are,  to  some  degree,  unpopular.  Let 
me  see,  the  lesson  Richards  would  draw  from  this  is  the 


176  AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 

promulgation  of  an  order  requiring  all  Government  em 
ployees  to  wear  the  clothes  of  their  predecessors.  Good ! 
I  '11  sound  Schurz  regarding  it.  It  will  promote  economy 
and  render  him  and  Evarts  less  remarkable  !  Let  me  see," 
he  added,  as  he  reached  Pennsylvania  Avenue  and  turned 
toward  the  huge  derricks  on  the  State  Department.  "  It 
can't  be  too  early  for  Evarts.  I  guess  I  '11  go  there  first." 

A  colored  messenger  doubtfully  received  the  card  ten 
dered  by  the  President,  on  which  he  had  written  the  name 
of  Joshua  Snively,  of  Ashtabula.  "  I  think  the  Secretary 's 
engaged  all  day,"  he  said,  examining  the  person  and  the 
card  of  the  Executive.  "  He  left  word  he  can  see  nobody 
but  princes  and  kings,  and  members  of  Congress  to-day." 

"  I  '11  wait,"  replied  the  Executive. 

He  waited  four  hours  in  the  anteroom.  He  couldn't 
say  that  the  hours  were  wasted,  for  during  that  time  he 
heard  himself  and  his  policy  discussed  in  whispers  by  people 
who  had  eaten  of  his  bread,  received  his  favor,  and  solicited 
his  support.  Perhaps  it  was  his  quiet  manner,  perhaps  it 
was  some  kindliness  in  the  heart  of  the  messenger  that 
caused  him  to  suggest  to  the  President  that  he  might  if  he 
wished  have  an  interview  with  the  First  Assistant  Secretary. 

"  Certainly,"  thought  the  President.  "  He  is  right,  I 
should  begin  with  Seward." 

As  he  opened  the  door  a  bright,  affable,  middle-aged 
man  sprang  to  his  feet  and  grasped  the  hand  of  the  Presi 
dent  warmly.  "My  dear  Mr.  Snively,  pray  be  seated. 
You  will  find  that  chair  more  comfortable." 

"  Eeally,"  said  the  President  to  himself,  as  he  sank  into 
a  luxuriant  armchair,  "  this  is  civil  service  reform.  My 
business,"  began  the  President  aloud,  "with  you  is 
simply  —  " 

"One  moment,"  interrupted  the  Assistant  Secretary, 
with  a  cautious  but  deprecatory  uplifting  of  his  hand ;  "  be 
lieve  me,  dear  sir,  you  have  no  business  with  the  Depart- 


AN  AMERICAN   HAROUN  AL-RASCHID  177 

ment.  You  only  think  you  have.  In  the  course  of  my 
long  connection  with  this  Department  I  have  found  many 
gentlemen  of  culture  and  ability  who  had  believed  or  con 
ceived  that  they  had  business  with  us.  They  had  not.  Dear 
sir,  I  assure  you  they  had  not.  In  the  course  of  four  or  five 
years,  at  least,  they  were  convinced  they  had  not.  It  is  to 
save  you  this  unnecessary  annoyance  that  I  speak  thus 
frankly." 

He  smiled  so  affably  and  genially,  looked  so  sympatheti 
cally  and  kindly,  that  the  President  was  dumb.  At  last 
he  ventured  to  say  :  — 

"  But  I  think,  Mr.  Seward  —  " 

"  Pardon  me.  You  only  think  you  think.  Nobody,  as 
a  rule,  thinks  in  this  Department.  We  talk,  it  is  true. 
You  talk,  I  talk,  they  talk.  He,  she,  and  it  talks.  But  I 
do  not  think,  thou  dost  not  think,  they  do  not  think." 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  Assistant  Secretary, 
rising  suddenly  and  grasping  both  hands  of  the  Executive 
with  an  excess  of  courtesy,  "  you  will  return  in  the  course  of 
a  few  months  to  your  pleasant  home  in  Ashtabula  County 
satisfied,  nay  convinced,  that  you  never  had  any  business 
with  the  State  Department.  Nay,  sir,"  as  the  President 
struggled  to  speak,  "do  not  thank  me,  it  is  simply  my 
duty.  God  bless  you.  Farewell !  " 

And  before  the  President  could  catch  his  breath  he  was 
ushered  into  the  corridor.  For  an  instant  the  hot  Ohio 
blood  mantled  his  cheek,  and  then  a  thought  struck  him. 
He  slipped  back  into  the  anteroom  and  in  his  own  well- 
known  chirography  wrote  over  the  Snively  card  the  man 
date  :  "  Give  him  an  audience.  R.  B.  Hayes." 

The  messenger  took  the  card,  glanced  at  the  writing, 
rushed  frantically  into  the  office  of  the  Secretary,  returned, 
knocked  over  two  Congressmen  and  a  Senator  in  his  haste, 
and  half-led,  half-dragged  the  President  into  the  presence 
of  the  Secretary. 


178  AN   AMEKICAN   HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  room  all  the  President  could  see 
was  the  familiar  Ciceronian  profile  of  his  prime  minister. 
The  rest  of  his  body  was  draped  in  shadow. 

The  President  sat  down  in  the  chair  indicated  by  the 
finger  of  the  Secretary.  The  Secretary  looked  thoughtfully 
out  of  the  window,  and  after  a  first  half-glance  at  the  Presi 
dent  took  no  further  personal  notice  of  him. 

In  the  excitement  of  his  entrance  the  President  had 
forgotten  his  alleged  business.  He  was  obliged  hastily  to 
invent  something. 

"Some  years  ago,  Mr.  Secretary,"  he  began,  "I  lost  an 
aged  but  endeared  relative  in  the  island  of  Formosa.  My 
business  with  you  is  to  procure  an  order  for  the  removal  of 
her  bones  to  the  lonely  graveyard  of  her  relatives." 

"  What  island  ?  "  said  Mr.  Evarts,  apparently  addressing 
the  unfinished  shaft  of  the  Washington  Monument. 

"  Formosa." 

"I  see  —  in  the  North  Atlantic,"  said  the  Secretary  nod 
ding  his  head. 

"Pardon  me  —  in  the  South  Pacific,"  corrected  the  Presi 
dent,  who  was  proud  of  his  geography. 

"In  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific,"  said  Mr.  Evarts  gravely. 
"  Formosa  is  from  the  Latin  formes,  an  Ant,  so  called  from 
the  ravages  of  that  insect.  Hence  the  term  Ant-illes  applied 
to  the  West  Indian  group  —  being  evidently  a  corruption 
of  Ant-Hillys." 

"But  I  suppose  there  is  no  objection  to  my  getting  such 
an  order  ?  "  asked  the  President  hastily. 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen.  How  do  you  know  —  how 
could  you  identify  the  bones  of  your  aged  relative  ?  Are  you 
prepared, "  said  the  Secretary,  rising  to  his  feet  with  sudden 
severity,  and  turning  upon  the  Executive  as  if  he  were  a 
recalcitrant  witness,  "are  you  prepared  to  put  your  finger 
on  this  bone  and  say  it  is  the  tibia  of  my  relative ;  can  you 
swear  to  her  spinal  processes  j  can  you,  lifting  her  fleshless 


AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID  179 

hand,  say,  '  These  are  the  metacarpal  bones  I  have  so  often 
pressed  ?  '  You  were  familiar  with  her  only  in  the  flesh. 
Non  constat  that  these  bones  are  hers  originally.  No.  I 
should  require  an  attested  certificate  of  that  fact." 

"But  if  I  get  the  certificate,  will  you  promise  to  give 
me  the  order  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  yes  or  no.  I  might,  and  I 
might  not.  A  delicate  legal  question  arises  here,  which  it 
is  my  duty  to  consider.  Your  grand-aunt  probably  fell  a 
victim  to  the  peculiar  tastes  of  the  Anthropophagi  who  swarm 
those  islands.  At  least,  for  the  sake  of  argument  we  will 
admit  that  at  one  time  your  family  was  edible,  and  that  your 
relative  was  —  in  plain  language  —  eaten.  Now  a  nation, 
at  peace  with  the  United  States,  having,  according  to  their 
local  laws,  become  seized  and  possessed  of  the  flesh  of  your 
aunt,  I  am  not  certain  but  the  entire  skeleton  may  also 
belong  to  them.  When  you  get  a  piece  of  meat  from  your 
butcher  you  do  not  part  with  your  rights  to  the  bone.  In 
deed,  I  am  not  certain  but  an  action  would  lie  against  the 
United  States  in  the  event  of  the  forcible  removal  of  your 
relative." 

"  Then  nothing  can  be  done,"  said  the  President  blankly. 

"At  present,  no!  In  the  course  of  a  few  years  —  in 
which  I  need  not  say  no  particular  loss  of  property  will  be 
entailed  upon  you  —  I  will  look  into  it.  You  will  file  your 
papers  with  my  clerk." 

"  But  I  might  appeal  to  the  President." 

"  I  am,  for  these  purposes,  the  President.  Good-morn 
ing,  sir."  And  the  Secretary  took  up  another  card. 

"I  don't  see,"  said  the  President  to  himself,  as  he 
heavily  descended  the  stairs,  "  that  I  'm  doing  much  in  the 
Persian  way  of  business.  I  can't  bow-string  Seward  and 
Evarts,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  if  I  could.  I 
wish  I  could  get  hold  of  some  real  wrong  and  injustice." 

As  he  passed  a  large  building  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue 


180  AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID 

he  saw  an  old  man,  in  shabby  attire,  sitting  patiently  on  its 
steps.  He  remembered  to  have  seen  this  man  every  morn 
ing  as  he  drove  into  town,  and  thought  the  present  a  good 
opportunity  to  discover  his  business.  "  May  I  ask  the  name 
of  this  building  ?  "  said  the  President  kindly. 

"  It  is  called  the  Department  of  Justice,"  said  the  man 
bitterly.  "  I  suppose  because  it  is  built  up  on  the  ruins  of 
a  fraud  —  the  Freedman's  Bank." 

"  You  speak  bitterly,  my  friend.  Have  you  a  complaint 
against  it  ?  "  said  the  President  encouragingly. 

"  I  ?ve  sat  here  five-and-twenty  years  waiting  to  know 
whether  the  Government  would  protect  me  from  thieves 
that  stole  my  land.  I  am  poor ;  my  antagonists  are  rich. 
I  can  get  no  opinion.  The  case  never  comes  up." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  the  President  ?  "  said  the  Execu 
tive  softly.  "  They  say  he  is  a  kind,  just  man,"  he  added, 
with  a  slight  blush. 

"What,  Hayes,  that  d d  old  fraud?  No,  sir-ree! 

Why,  he  's  in  the  ring,  ag'in'  me,  too." 

"But  give  me  the  particulars  of  your  case.  I  know  the 
President  well,  and  may  help  you." 

The  old  man  rose  to  his  feet,  trembling  with  rage.  "  You 
infernal  old  brass-buttoned  lobbyist;  you  dare  to  speak  to 
me  when  I  *ve  spent  thousands  of  dollars  on  your  kind ! 
Git!" 

"I  wonder,"  thought  the  President,  as  he  dodged  to  avoid 
the  cane  of  the  old  man,  "if  that  old  Persian  ever  was 
knocked  over  by  a  cripple  in  the  streets  of  Bagdad?" 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  found  he  had  spent  six  hours 
at  the  State  Department.  He  was  beginning  to  be  faint 
from  hunger,  and  he  turned  into  the  first  restaurant  that  in 
vited.  As  he  passed  the  bar  he  heard  his  name  spoken,  and 
remembering  the  advice  of  Haroun,  ordered  a  glass  of  seltzer, 
and  mingled  with  the  crowd  before  the  counter.  Some  of 
the  gentlemen  were  tipsy ;  all  were  loquacious. 


AN  AMERICAN  HABOUN  AL-RASCHID  181 

"I  tell  you  what,  gentlemen,  what  that  Hayes  oughter 
do.  He  oughter  order  out  200,000  men  and  take  possession 
of  all  them  railroads,"  said  one. 

"And  then  he  oughter  just  run  them  railroads  with 
regular  tariff  of  freights  and  fares  himself,  and  employ  them 
men  at  fair  wages." 

"  Yes,  but  that  ain't  the  kind  o'  man  Hayes  is.  Why, 
if  he  had  the  sale  o'  you  and  me,  he  'd  jist  hev  sent  enough 
troops  over  into  Mexico  and  jist  gobbled  enough  o'  that 
kentry  to  pay  the  national  debt." 

"I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  there  ain't  no  statesmanship  in 
the  country.  Look  at  the  chance  we  had  to  get  Cuby  the 
other  day,  along  o'  that  frigate  firing  into  American  colors. 
That  Evarts  ain't  worth  shucks." 

"I  suppose,"  thought  the  President  wearily,  "it's  the 
proper  Persian  thing  to  make  a  memorandum  of  these  opin 
ions  of  the  people  and  present  them  to  the  Cabinet.  But 
I  don't  see  that  I  am  gaining  much." 

A  little  refreshed  by  his  dinner,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
Interior  Department.  As  he  ascended  the  steps  a  man 
passed  him  hurriedly,  as  if  seeking  to  enter  without  obser 
vation.  Forgetting  his  incognito  for  a  moment,  the  Presi 
dent  called  out,  "  O  Schurz  ?  " 

The  man  leaped  wildly  into  the  air,  shuddered,  grimaced, 
and  shouting  "No  vacancies,"  disappeared  madly  down  the 
corridor. 

"  Poor  Carl !  »  said  the  President.  "  Well,  I  won't  dis 
turb  him.  But  why,  after  all,  is  he  so  incensed  at  office- 
seekers  —  he  who  has  sought  office  all  his  life  ?  " 

Communing  thus,  the  President  went  from  office  to  office, 
from  bureau  to  bureau,  but  always  with  the  same  result. 
There  was  no  complaint,  no  approbation;  the  cold  indiffer 
ence  of  a  vast  piece  of  complicated  machinery  seemed  to  con 
trol  the  entire  building,  until  an  unlooked-for  event  gave 
the  President  an  opportunity  to  exercise  his  generous,  just, 


182  AN  AMERICAN  HAKOUN  AL-RASCHID 

and  chivalrous  Persian  instincts.  Passing  through  the  ante 
room,  he  saw  a  very  pretty  girl  drying  her  wet  eyes  in  the 
corner.  Struck  by  her  grief  and  her  beauty,  the  President 
approached  her  with  a  mingled  fatherly  kindness  and  magis 
terial  condescension,  and  begged  to  know  the  reason  of  her 
distress. 

"I  have  just  been  dismissed  from  the  service,"  she  said, 
with  a  heart-broken  sob. 

"  And  why,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Because  my  second  cousin  is  carpenter  in  the  navy  yard 
at  Mare  Island." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  the  President  ?  " 

"  The  President !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  straight 
ening  of  her  pretty  brow.  "  The  President  —  why,  it  is  to 
give  one  of  his  friends  from  Ohio  a  place  that  the  Secretary 
hunted  up  this  relationship !  Don't  talk  to  me  about 
Hayes!" 

The  President  pondered.  He  did  remember  his  applica 
tion.  But  here  was  a  chance  to  be  generous  and  just  — 
and  a  man  could  as  well  be  discharged  as  a  woman.  And 
then  he  could  do  it  romantically,  and  after  the  Persian  fash 
ion.  He  could  make  an  appointment  to  meet  her,  have  her 
driven  to  the  White  House,  and  then  reveal  himself  in  all 
his  power  as  a  wise  and  humane  ruler. 

"  Listen,  I  will  speak  to  the  President  for  you,"  he  said, 
taking  her  little  hand. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  ;  you  are  too  kind,"  she  said  gratefully, 
yet  looking  at  him  a  little  curiously. 

"Hear  me,  my  dear.  To-night  at  eight  o'clock,  be  at 
the  corner  of  Ninth  and  F  Streets.  A  close  carriage  will 
be  in  waiting,  and  the  driver  will  take  you  —  no  matter 
where,  but  where  possibly  your  wish  may  be  obtained." 

To  the  President's  intense  terror,  the  young  woman  in 
stantly  set  up  an  appalling  scream,  fell  backward  in  her 
chair,  and  began  to  violently  kick  her  heels  against  the  floor. 


AN  AMERICAN  HAROUN  AL-RASCHID  183 

In  an  instant  the  room  was  filled  with  clerks  of  1st,  2d,  3d, 
4th  and  16th  class,  armed  with  erasers  and  headed  by  the 
tall  form  of  the  Secretary  himself,  brandishing  a  huge  beet 
from  the  Agricultural  Department. 

"There  he  stands,"  screamed  the  indignant  girl;  "look 
at  him,  the  old  reprobate,  the  hoary-headed  villain ! " 

"  What  has  he  done  ?  "  said  the  Secretary. 

"  Proposed  to  me  an  infamous  elopement  if  he  could  re 
instate  me  in  my  place.  Wanted  to  meet  me  in  a  carriage 
after  dark,  and  before  all  these  people,  too !  Oh,  the  shame 
less  rascal ! " 

There  was  an  indignant  outcry  from  the  masculine  clerks, 
a  titter  from  the  females.  Schurz  advanced  nourishing  his 
dreadful  vegetable.  The  President  looked  wildly  round  — 
there  was  but  one  mode  of  escape,  the  window !  It  was 
desperate,  but  he  took  it,  and  —  landed  in  the  middle  of  his 
bed. 

"  The  party  are  waiting  for  you,  Mr.  President,"  said 
the  voice  of  his  secretary  at  his  side. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  President,  rubbing  his  eyes,  "I'm  com 
ing.  I  see  now.  It  must  have  been  the  seltzer." 


THE  FIRST   MAN 

SOME  repairs  were  needed  to  the  engine  when  the  train 
reached  Reno,  and  while  most  of  the  passengers  were  taking 
a  philosophical  view  of  the  delay  and  making  themselves  as 
comfortable  as  possible  in  the  depot,  in  walked  a  native. 
He  was  n't  a  native  Indian  nor  a  native  grizzly,  but  a  native 
Nevadian,  and  he  was  rigged  out  in  imperial  style.  He 
wore  a  bearskin  coat  and  cap,  buckskin  leggings  and  mocca 
sins,  and  in  his  belt  was  a  big  knife  and  two  revolvers. 
There  was  lightning  in  his  eye,  destruction  in  his  walk,  and 
as  he  sauntered  up  to  the  red-hot  stove  and  scattered  to 
bacco  juice  over  it,  a  dozen  passengers  looked  pale  with 
fear.  Among  the  travelers  was  a  car  painter  from  Jersey 
City,  and  after  surveying  the  native  for  a  moment,  he 
coolly  inquired :  — 

"  Are  n't  you  afraid  you  '11  fall  down  and  hurt  yourself 
with  those  weapons  ?  " 

"  W — what !  "  gasped  the  native  in  astonishment. 

"  I  suppose  they  sell  such  outfits  as  you  've  got  on  at 
auction  out  here,  don't  they  ?  "  continued  the  painter. 

"W — what  d'ye  mean  —  who  are  ye?"  whispered  the 
native,  as  he  walked  around  the  stove  and  put  on  a  terrible 
look. 

"My  name  is  Logwood,"  was  the  calm  reply;  "  and  I 
mean  that  if  I  were  you  I  'd  crawl  out  of  those  old  duds  and 
put  on  some  decent  clothes ! " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  that  way,  or  you  won't  live  a  minit !  " 
exclaimed  the  native  as  he  hopped  around.  "Why,  you 
homesick  coyote.  I  am  Grizzly  Dan,  the  heaviest  Indian 
fighter  in  the  world.  I  was  the  first  white  man  to  scout  for 


THE  FIRST  MAN  185 

General  Crook !  I  was  the  first  white  man  in  the  Black 
Hills !  I  was  the  first  white  man  among  the  Modocs  ! " 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  flatly  replied  the  painter.  "You 
look  more  like  the  first  man  down  to  the  dinner  table ! " 

The  native  drew  his  knife,  put  it  back  again,  looked 
around,  and  then  softly  said :  — 

"  Stranger,  will  ye  come  over  behind  the  ridge,  and  shoot 
and  slash  until  this  thing  is  settled  ?  " 

"You  bet  I  will!  "  replied-  the-  man  from  Jersey,  as  he 
rose  to  his  feet.  "  Just  pace  right  out  and  I  '11  follow 
you ! " 

Every  man  in  the  room  jumped  to  his  feet  in  wild  ex 
citement.  The  native  started  for  the  back  door,  but  when 
he  found  the  car  painter  at  his  heels  with  a  six-barreled  Colt 
in  his  hands,  he  halted  and  said :  — 

"  Friend,  come  to  think  about  it,  I  don't  want  to  kill  you, 
and  have  your  widow  come  on  me  for  damages  !  " 

"Go  right  ahead — I'm  not  a  married  man,"  replied 
the  painter. 

"  But  you  've  got  relatives,  and  I  don't  want  no  lawsuits 
to  bother  me  just  as  spring  is  coming." 

"I'm  an  orphan,  without  a  relative  in  the  world ! " 
shouted  the  Jerseyite. 

"  Well,  the  law  would  make  me  bury  you,  and  it  would 
be  a  week's  work  to  dig  a  grave  at  this  season  of  the  year. 
I  think  I  '11  break  a  rib  or  two  for  you,  smash  your  nose, 
gouge  out  your  left  eye,  and  let  you  go  at  that ! " 

"  That  suits  me  to  a  dot,"  said  the  painter.  "  Gentle 
men,  please  stand  back,  and  some  of  you  shut  the  door  to 
the  ladies'  room." 

"  I  was  the  first  man  to  attack  a  grizzly  bear  with  a 
bowie-knife,"  remarked  the  native  as  he  looked  around.  "I 
was  the  first  man  to  discover  silver  in  Nevada.  I  made 
the  first  scout  up  Powder  Eiver.  I  was  the  first  man  to 
make  hunting-shirts  out  of  the  skin  of  Pawnee  Indians.  I 


186  THE  FIRST  MAN 

don't  want  to  hurt  this  man,  as  he  looks  kinder  sad  and 
down-hearted,  hut  he  must  apologize  to  me." 

"I  won't  do  it,"  cried  the  painter. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  never  fight  without  taking  off  my  coat, 
and  I  don't  see  any  man  here  to  hang  it  on,"  aaid  the 
native. 

"I'll  hold  it,"  shouted  a  dozen  voices  in  chorus. 

"And  another  thing,"  softly  continued  the  native;  "I 
never  fight  in  a  hot  room.  I  used  to  do  it  years  ago,  but 
I  found  it  was  running  me  into  consumption.  I  always  do 
my  fighting  out  of  doors  now." 

"I  '11  go  out  with  you,  you  old  rahhit-killer  !  "  exclaimed 
the  painter,  who  had  his  coat  off. 

"  That 's  another  deadly  insult,  to  be  wiped  out  in  blood, 
and  I  see  I  must  finish  you.  I  never  fight  around  a  depot, 
though.  I  go  out  on  a  prairie,  where  there  is  a  chance  to 
throw  myself." 

"  Where 's  your  prairie  ?  —  lead  the  way  !  "  howled  the 
crowd. 

"  It  would* n't  do  any  good,"  replied  the  native,  as  fee 
leaned  against  the  watt.  "  I  always  hold  a  $10  gold- piece 
in  my  mouth  when  I  fight,  and  I  have  n't  got  one  to-day  — 
in  'fact,  I  'm  dead  broke." 

"  Here 's  a  gold-piece ! "  called  a  tall  man,  holding  up  the 
metal. 

"  I  'm  a  thousand  times  obleeged,"  mournfully  replied  the 
native,  shaking  his  head.  "  I  never  go  into  a  fight  without 
putting  red  paint  on  my  left  ear  for  luck ;  and  I  have  n't 
any  red  paint  by  me,  and  there  isn't  a  bit  in  Reno." 

"  Are  —  you  —  going  —  to  —  fight  ?  "  demanded  the  oar 
painter,  reaching  out  for  the  bearskin  cap. 

"  I  took  a  solemn  oath  when  a  boy  never  to  fight  without 
painting  my  left  ear,"  protested  the  Indian  killer.  "  You 
would  n't  want  me  to  go  back  on  my  solemn  oath,  would 
you?" 


THE  FIRST  MAN  187 

"  You  're  a  cabbage,  a  squash,  a  pumpkin,  dressed  up  in 
leggings ! "  contemptuously  remarked  the  car  painter,  as  he 
put  on  his  coat. 

"Yes,  he's  a  great  coward,"  remarked  several  others  as 
they  turned  away. 

"I'll  give  $10,000  for  ten  drops  of  red  paint,"  shrieked 
the  native.  "  Oh  !  Why  is  it  that  I  have  no  red  paint  for 
my  ear  when  there  is  such  a  chance  to  get  in  and  kill  ?  " 

A  big  blacksmith  from  Illinois  took  him  by  the  neck  and 
ran  him  out,  and  he  was  seen  no  more  for  an  hour.  Just  before 
the  train  started,  and  after  all  the  passengers  had  taken 
seats,  the  "  first  man  "  was  seen  on  the  platform.  He  had 
another  bowie  knife,  and  had  also  put  a  tomahawk  in  his 
belt.  There  was  red  paint  on  his  left  ear,  his  eyes  rolled, 
and  in  a  terrible  voice  he  called  out :  — 

"Where  is  that  man  Logwood?  Let  him  come  out  here 
and  meet  his  doom  ! " 

"  Is  that  you  ?  Count  me  in !  "  replied  the  car  painter, 
as  he  opened  a  window.  He  rushed  for  the  door,  leaped 
down,  and  was  pulling  off  his  overcoat  again,  when  the 
native  began  to  retreat,  calling  out :  — 

"  I  '11  get  my  hair  cut  and  be  back  in  seventeen  seconds. 
I  never  fight  with  long  hair.  I  promised  my  dying  mother 
not  to." 

When  the  train  rolled  away,  he  was  seen  flourishing  his 
tomahawk  around  his  head  in  the  wildest  manner. 


EETIEING  FEOM   BUSINESS 

WHAT  the  Colonel's  business  was  nobody  knew,  nor  did 
anybody  care,  particularly.  He  purchased  for  cash  only, 
and  he  never  grumbled  at  the  price  of  anything  he  wanted ; 
who  could  ask  more  than  that? 

Curious  people  occasionally  wondered  how,  when  it  had 
been  fully  two  years  since  the  Colonel,  with  every  one  else, 
had  abandoned  Dutch  Creek  to  the  Chinese,  he  managed  to 
spend  money  freely  and  to  lose  considerable  at  cards  and 
horse  races.  In  fact,  the  keeper  of  that  one  of  the  two 
Challenge  Hill  saloons  which  the  Colonel  did  not  patronize, 
was  once  heard  to  absent-mindedly  wonder  whether  the 
Colonel  had  n't  a  money-mill  somewhere  where  he  turned 
out  double  eagles  and  "slugs"  (the  Coast  name  for  fifty- 
dollar  gold-pieces). 

When  so  important  a  personage  as  a  barkeeper  indulged 
publicly  in  an  idea,  the  inhabitants  of  Challenge  Hill,  like 
good  Calif ornians  everywhere,  considered  themselves  in  duty 
bound  to  give  it  grave  consideration ;  so  for  a  few  days  cer 
tain  industrious  professional  gentlemen,  who  won  money  of 
the  Colonel,  carefully  weighed  some  of  the  brightest  pieces, 
and  tried  them  with  acids,  and  tested  them,  and  sawed  them 
up,  and  had  the  lumps  assayed.  The  result  was  a  complete 
vindication  of  the  Colonel,  and  a  loss  of  considerable  cus 
tom  to  the  indiscreet  barkeeper. 

The  Colonel  was  as  good-natured  a  man  as  had  ever  been 
know  at  Challenge  Hill,  but,  being  mortal,  the  Colonel  had 
his  occasional  times  of  despondency,  and  one  of  them  oc 
curred  after  a  series  of  races  in  which  he  had  staked  his  all 
on  his  own  bay  mare  Tipsie,  and  had  lost. 


RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS  189 

Looking  reproachfully  at  his  beloved  animal,  he  failed  to 
heed  the  aching  void  of  his  pockets ;  and  drinking  deeply, 
swearing  eloquently,  and  glaring  defiantly  at  all  mankind 
were  equally  unproductive  of  coin. 

The  boys  at  the  saloon  sympathized  most  feelingly  with  the 
Colonel;  they  were  unceasing  in  their  invitations  to  drink, 
and  they  even  exhibited  considerable  Christian  forbearance 
when  the  Colonel  savagely  dissented  with  every  one  who 
advanced  any  proposition,  no  matter  how  incontrovertible. 

But  unappreciated  sympathy  grows  decidedly  tiresome  to 
the  giver,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  the  boys 
saw  the  Colonel  stride  out  of  the  saloon,  mount  Tipsie,  and 
gallop  furiously  away. 

Biding  on  horseback  has  always  been  considered  an  ex 
cellent  sort  of  exercise,  and  fast  riding  is  universally  ad 
mitted  to  be  one  of  the  most  healthful  and  delightful  means 
of  exhilaration  in  the  world. 

But  when  a  man  is  so  absorbed  in  his  exercise  that  he 
will  not  stop  to  speak  to  a  friend,  and  when  his  exhilaration 
is  so  complete  that  he  turns  his  eyes  from  well-meaning 
thumbs  pointing  significantly  into  doorways  through  which 
a  man  has  often  passed  while  seeking  bracing  influences,  it 
is  but  natural  that  people  should  express  some  wonder. 

The  Colonel  was  well  known  at  Toddy  Flat,  Lone  Hand, 
Blazers,  Murderer's  Bar,  and  several  other  villages  through 
which  he  passed.  As  no  one  had  been  seen  to  precede  him, 
betting  men  were  soon  offering  odds  that  the  Colonel  was 
running  away  from  somebody. 

Strictly  speaking,  they  were  wrong ;  but  they  won  all  the 
money  that  had  been  staked  against  them,  for,  within  half 
an  hour's  time,  there  passed  over  the  same  road  an  anxious- 
looking  individual,  who  reined  up  in  front  of  the  principal 
saloon  of  each  place,  and  asked  if  the  Colonel  had  passed. 

Had  the  gallant  Colonel  known  that  he  was  followed,  and 
by  whom,  there  would  have  been  an  extra  election  held  at 


190  RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS 

the  latter  place  very  shortly  after,  for  the  pursuer  was  the 
constable  of  Challenge  Hill ;  and  for  constables  and  all  offi 
cers  of  the  law  the  Colonel  possessed  hatred  of  unspeakable 
intensity. 

On  galloped  the  Colonel,  following  the  stage  road,  which 
threaded  the  old  mining-camps  on  Duck  Creek ;  but  sud 
denly  he  turned  abruptly  out  of  the  road  and  urged  his 
horse  through  the  young  pines  and  bushes,  which  grew 
thickly  by  the  road,  while  the  constable  galloped  rapidly  on 
to  the  next  camp. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  path  through  the  thicket  into 
which  the  Colonel  had  turned,  but  Tipsie  waled  between 
the  trees  and  shrubs  as  if  they  were  the  familiar  objects  of 
her  own  stable-yard.  Suddenly  a  voice  from  the  bushes 
shouted :  — 

"What's  up?" 

"Business  —  that's  what,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

"It  's  time,"  replied  the  voice ;  and  its  owner  — a  bearded 
six-footer — emerged  from  the  bushes,  and  stroked  Tipsie's 
nose  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  acquaintance.  "  We  ain't 
had  a  nip  since  last  night,  and  thar  ain't  a  cracker  or  a 
handful  of  flour  in  the  shanty.  The  old  gal  go  back  on  yer  ?  " 

"  Yes, "  replied  the  Colonel  ruefully ;  "  lost  every  blarsted 
race.  'T  was  n't  her  fault  —  bless  her  —  she  done  her  level 
best.  Ev'rybody  to  home  ?  " 

"  You  bet,"  said  the  man.  "  All  been  a-prayin'  for  yer 
to  turn  up  with  the  rocks,  an*  somethin'  with  more  color 
than  spring  water.  Come  on." 

The  man  led  the  way,  and  Tipsie  and  the  Colonel  fol 
lowed,  and  the  trio  suddenly  found  themselves  before  a 
small  log  hut,  but  in  front  of  which  sat  three  solemn,  dis 
consolate  individuals,  who  looked  appealingly  to  the  Colo 
nel. 

"  Mac  '11  tell  yer  how  't  was,  fellers,"  said  the  Colonel 
meekly,  "  while  I  picket  the  mare." 


RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS  191 

The  Colonel  was  absent  but  a  very  few  moments,  but 
when  he  returned  each  of  the  four  was  attired  in  pistols 
and  knife,  while  Mac  was  distributing  some  dominos,  made 
from  a  rather  dirty  flour-bag. 

"'T  ain't  so  late  ez  all  that,  is  it?"  inquired  the  Colo 
nel. 

"  Better  be  an  hour  ahead  than  miss  it  this  'ere  night," 
said  one  of  the  four.  "I  ain't  been  so  thirsty  since  I 
come  round  the  Horn  in  '50,  an'  we  run  short  of  water. 
Somebody  '11  get  hurt  if  ther  ain't  any  bitters  on  the  old 
concern  —  they  will,  or  my  name  ain't  Perkins." 

"  Don't  count  on  your  chickens  'fore  they  're  hatched, 
Perky,"  said  one  of  the  party,  as  he  adjusted  the  domino 
under  the  rim  of  his  hat.  "  S'posin,  there  shud  be  too 
many  for  us  ?  " 

"Stiddy,  stiddy,  Cranks,"  remonstrated  the  Colonel. 
"  Nobody  ever  gets  along  ef  they  'low  'emselves  to  be 
skeered." 

"  Fact,"  chimed  in  the  smallest  and  thinnest  man  in  the 
party.  "  The  Bible  says  somethin'  mighty  hot  'bout  that : 
I  disremember  adzackly  how  it  goes ;  but  I  've  heerd  Parson 
Buzzy,  down  in  Maine,  preach  a  rippin'  old  sermon  many 
a  time.  The  old  man  never  thort  what  a  comfort  them  ser 
mons  wuz  a-goin'  to  be  to  a  road  agent,  though.  That  time 
we  stopped  Slim  Mike's  stage,  and  he  did  n't  hev  no  more 
manners  than  to  draw  on  me,  them  sermons  wuz  a  perfect 
blessing  to  me  —  the  thought  of  'em  cleared  my  head  as 
quick  as  a  cocktail.  An'  —  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  dispute  Logroller's  pious  strain,"  inter 
rupted  the  Colonel ;  "  but  ez  it 's  Old  Black  that 's  drivin' 
to-day  instead  of  Slim  Mike,  an'  ez  Old  Black  allers  makes 
his  time,  had  n't  we  better  vamoose  ?  " 

The  door  of  the  shanty  was  hastily  closed,  and  the  men 
filed  through  the  thicket  until  near  the  road,  when  they 
marched  rapidly  on  in  parallel  lines  with  it.  After  about 


192  RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS 

half  an  hour,  Perkins,  who  was  leading,  halted  and  wiped 
his  perspiring  hrow  with  his  shirt-sleeve. 

"  Fur  enough  from  home  now,"  said  he.  "  'T  aint  no 
use  bein'  a  gentleman  ef  yer  have  to  work  too  hard." 

"  Safe  enough,  I  reckon,"  replied  the  Colonel.  "  We  '11 
do  the  usual;  I  '11  halt  'em,  Logroller  'tends  to  the  driver, 
Cranks  takes  the  boot,  an'  Mac  an'  Perk  takes  right  an'  left. 
An'  —  I  know  it 's  tough  —  but  considerin'  how  everlastin' 
eternally  hard-up  we  are,  I  reckon  we  '11  have  to  ask  contribu 
tions  from  the  ladies,  too,  ef  thar  's  any  aboard  —  eh,  boys  ?  " 

"  Beckon  so,"  replied  Logroller,  with  a  chuckle  that 
seemed  to  inspire  even  his  black  domino  with  a  merry 
wrinkle  or  two.  "  What 's  the  use  of  woman's  rights  ef 
they  don't  ever  have  a  chance  of  exercisin'  'em  ?  Hevin' 
their  purses  borrowed  'ud  show  'em  the  hull  doctrine  in  a 
bran-new  light." 

"  Come,  come,  old  boys,"  interposed  the  Colonel,  "  that 's 
the  crack  of  Old  Black's  whip !  Pick  yer  bushes  —  quick ! 
All  jump  when  I  whistle  !  " 

Each  man  secreted  himself  near  the  roadside.  The  stage 
came  swinging  along  handsomely ;  the  insides  were  laugh 
ing  heartily  about  something ;  and  Old  Black  was  just  giv 
ing  a  delicate  touch  to  the  flank  of  the  off  leader,  when  the 
Colonel  gave  a  shrill,  quick  whistle,  and  five  men  sprang 
into  the  road. 

The  horses  stopped  as  suddenly  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
common  occurrence.  Old  Black  dropped  the  reins,  crossed 
his  legs,  and  stared  into  the  sky,  and  the  passengers  all  put 
out  their  heads  with  a  rapidity  equaled  only  by  that  with 
which  they  withdrew  them  as  they  saw  the  dominos  and 
revolvers  of  the  road  agents. 

"  Seems  to  be  something  the  matter,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  Colonel  blandly,  as  he  opened  the  door.  "  Won't  you 
please  get  out?  Don't  you  trouble  yourself  to  draw,  'cos 
my  friend  here 's  got  his  weapon  cocked,  an'  his  fingers  is 


Won't  you  please  get  out  ? 


RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS  193 

rather  nervous.  Ain't  got  a  handkerchief,  hev  yer  ?  "  asked 
he  of  the  first  passenger  who  descended  from  the  stage. 
"  Hev  ?  Well,  now,  that 's  lucky.  Just  put  yer  hands 
behind  you,  please,  —  so,  —  that 's  it."  And  the  unfortu 
nate  man  was  securely  bound  in  an  instant. 

The  remaining  passengers  were  treated  with  similar  cour 
tesy,  and  the  Colonel  and  his  friends  examined  the  pockets 
of  the  captives.  Old  Black  remained  unmolested,  for  who 
ever  heard  of  a  stage-driver  having  money  ? 

"  Boys,"  said  the  Colonel,  calling  his  brother  agents  aside, 
and  comparing  receipts,  "  't  aint  much  of  a  haul ;  but  there  ?s 
only  one  woman,  an'  she 's  old  enough  to  be  a  feller's  grand 
mother.  Better  let  her  alone,  eh  ?  " 

"  Like  enough  she  '11  pan  out  more  'n  all  the  rest  of  the 
stage  put  together,"  growled  Cranks,  carefully  testing  the 
thickness  of  the  case  of  a  gold  watch.  "Just  like  the  low 
lived  deceitfulness  of  some  folks  to  hire  an  old  woman  to 
carry  their  money,  so  it  'd  go  safer.  Maybe  what  she 's  got 
ain't  nothin'  to  some  folks  that  's  got  hosses  that  kin  win 
money  at  races,  but  —  " 

The  Colonel  abruptly  ended  the  conversation  and  ap 
proached  the  stage.  He  was  very  chivalrous,  but  Cranks's 
sarcastic  reference  to  Tipsie  needed  avenging,  and  as  he  could 
not,  consistently  with  business  arrangements,  put  an  end  to 
Cranks,  the  old  lady  would  have  to  suffer. 

"  I  beg  your  pardin,  ma'am,"  said  the  Colonel,  raising  his 
hat  politely  with  one  hand  while  he  opened  the  coach  door 
with  the  other, '"but  we  're  takin'  up  a  collection  for  some 
deservin'  object.  We  wuz  a-goin'  to  make  the  gentlemen 
fork  over  the  full  amount,  but  ez  they  ain't  got  enough, 
we  will  hev  to  bother  you." 

The  old  lady  trembled,  felt  for  her  pocketbook,  raised 
her  veil.  The  Colonel  looked  into  her  face,  slammed  the 
stage  door,  and  sitting  on  the  hub  of  one  of  the  wheels, 
stared  vacantly  into  space. 


194  RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS 

"  Nothin'  ?  "  queried  Perkins  in  a  whisper,  and  with  a 
face  full  of  genuine  sympathy. 

"  No  —  yes,"  said  the  Colonel  dreamily.  "  That  is,  untie 
'em  and  let  the  stage  go  ahead,"  he  continued,  springing 
to  his  feet.  "I'll  hurry  hack  to  the  cabin."  And  the 
Colonel  dashed  into  the  hushes  and  left  his  followers  so 
paralyzed  that  Old  Black  afterward  remarked  that  "ef 
there  'd  been  anybody  to  the  hosses  he  could  hev  cleaned 
the  hull  crowd  with  his  whip." 

The  passengers,  now  relieved  of  their  weapons,  were 
unbound,  allowed  to  enter  the  stage,  and  the  door  was 
slammed,  upon  which  Old  Black  picked  up  his  reins  as 
coolly  as  if  he  had  laid  them  down  at  a  station  while  the 
horses  were  being  changed ;  then  he  cracked  his  whip  and 
the  stage  rolled  off,  while  the  Colonel's  party  hastened  back 
to  their  hut,  fondly  inspecting  as  they  went  certain  flasks 
they  had  obtained  while  transacting  their  business  with  the 
occupants  of  the  stage. 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  the  road  agents  as  they  entered 
their  hut,  for  there  stood  the  Colonel  in  a  clean  white  shirt, 
and  in  a  suit  of  clothing  made  from  the  limited,  spare  ward 
robes  of  the  other  members  of  the  gang. 

But  the  suspicious  Cranks  speedily  subordinated  his  won 
der  to  his  prudence,  as,  laying  on  the  table  a  watch,  two 
pistols,  a  pocketbook,  and  a  heavy  purse,  he  exclaimed :  — 

"  Come,  Colonel,  business  before  pleasure  ;  let 's  divide 
an'  scatter.  Ef  anybody  should  hear  about  this  robbery,  an' 
find  our  trail,  an'  ketch  the  traps  in  our  possession,  they 
might  —  " 

"Divide  yerselves,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  abruptness 
and  a  great  oath  ;  "  I  don't  want  none  of  it." 

"  Colonel,"  said  Perkins,  removing  his  own  domino  and 
looking  anxiously  into  the  leader's  face,  "  be  you  sick  ? 
Here 's  some  bully  brandy  which  I  found  in  one  of  the  pas 
sengers'  pockets." 


RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS  195 

"  I  hain't  nothin',"  replied  the  Colonel,  with  averted 
eyes.  "  I  'm  a-goin',  and  I  'm  a-retirin'  from  this  business, 
forever." 

"  Ain't  a-goin'  to  turn  evidence  ?  "  cried  Cranks,  grasp 
ing  the  pistol  on  the  table. 

"  I  'm  a-goin'  to  make  a  lead  mine  of  you  ef  you  don't 
take  that  back ! "  roared  the  Colonel,  with  a  bound  which 
caused  Cranks  to  drop  the  pistol  and  retire  precipitately, 
apologizing  as  he  went.  "  I  'm  a-goin'  to  'tend  to  my  own 
business,  an'  that 's  enough  to  keep  any  man  bizzy.  Some 
body  lend  me  fifty  dollars  till  I  see  him  ag'in." 

Perkins  pressed  the  money  into  the  Colonel's  hand,  and 
within  two  minutes  the  Colonel  was  on  Tipsie's  back  and 
had  galloped  off  in  the  direction  the  stage  had  taken. 

He  overtook  it,  he  passed  it,  and  still  he  galloped  on. 

The  people  at  Mud  Gulch  knew  the  Colonel  well,  and 
made  a  rule  never  to  be  astonished  at  anything  he  did;  but 
they  made  an  exception  to  the  rule  when  the  Colonel  can 
vassed  the  principal  barrooms  for  men  who  wished  to  pur 
chase  a  horse;  and  when  a  gambler  who  was  flush  obtained 
Tipsie  for  twenty  slugs, — only  a  thousand  dollars,  when  the 
Colonel  had  always  said  that  there  was  n't  gold  enough  on 
top  of  ground  to  buy  her,  —  Mud  Gulch  experienced  a  de 
cided  sensation. 

One  or  two  enterprising  persons  soon  discovered  that  the 
Colonel  was  not  in  a  communicative  mood  ;  so  every  one 
retired  to  his  favorite  saloon  to  bet  according  to  his  own 
opinion  of  the  Colonel's  motives  and  actions. 

But  when  the  Colonel,  after  remaining  in  a  barber  shop 
for  half  an  hour,  emerged  with  his  face  clean-shaved  and  hair 
neatly  trimmed  and  parted,  betting  was  so  wild  that  a  cool- 
headed  sporting  man  speedily  made  a  fortune  by  betting 
against  every  theory  that  was  advanced. 

Then  the  Colonel  made  a  tour  of  the  stores  and  fitted  him 
self  with  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  carefully  eschewing  all  of  the 


196  RETIRING  FROM  BUSINESS 

generous  patterns  and  pronounced  colors  so  dear  to  the  aver 
age  miner.  He  bought  a  new  hat,  and  put  on  a  pair  of 
boots,  and  pruned  his  finger  nails,  and,  stranger  than  all,  he 
mildly  declined  all  invitations  to  drink. 

As  the  Colonel  stood  in  the  door  of  the  principal  saloon 
where  the  stage  always  stopped,  the  Challenge  Hill  constable 
was  seen  to  approach  the  Colonel  and  tap  him  on  the 
shoulder,  upon  which  all  men  who  bet  that  the  Colonel  was 
dodging  somebody  claimed  the  stakes.  But  those  who 
stood  near  the  Colonel  heard  the  constable  say :  — 

"  Colonel,  I  take  it  all  back.  When  I  seed  you  get  out 
of  Challenge  Hill  it  come  to  me  that  you  might  be  in  the 
road-agent  business,  so  I  follered  you  —  duty,  you  know. 
But  when  I  seed  you  sell  Tipsie  I  knew  I  was  on  the  wrong 
trail.  I  would  n't  suspect  you  now  if  all  the  stages  in  the 
State  wuz  robbed  j  and  I  '11  give  you  satisfaction  any  way 
you  want  it." 

"  It 's  all  right,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  smile. 

The  constable  afterward  said  that  nobody  had  any  idea 
of  how  curiously  the  Colonel  smiled  when  his  beard  was  off. 

Suddenly  the  stage  pulled  up  at  the  door  with  a  crash, 
and  the  male  passengers  hurried  into  the  saloon  in  a  state 
of  utter  indignation  and  impecuniosity. 

The  story  of  the  robbery  attracted  everybody,  and  during 
the  excitement  the  Colonel  quietly  slipped  out  and  opened 
the  door  of  the  stage.  The  old  lady  started,  and  cried :  — 

"  George ! " 

And  the  Colonel  jumped  into  the  stage  and  put  his  arms 
tenderly  around  the  trembling  form  of  the  old  lady,  exclaim 
ing: — 

"  Mother ! " 


A   GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  POETE 

HE  was  also  a  Pioneer.  A  party  who  broke  through  the 
snows  of  the  winter  of  '  51,  and  came  upon  the  triangular 
little  valley  afterwards  known  as  La  Porte,  found  him  the 
sole  inhabitant.  He  had  subsisted  for  three  months  on  two 
biscuits  a  day  and  a  few  inches  of  bacon,  in  a  hut  made  of 
bark  and  brushwood.  Yet,  when  the  explorers  found  him, 
he  was  quite  alert,  hopeful,  and  gentlemanly.  But  I  cheer 
fully  make  way  here  for  the  terser  narrative  of  Captain 
Henry  Symes,  commanding  the  prospecting  party  :  — 

"  We  kern  upon  him,  gentlemen,  suddent-like,  jest  abreast 
of  a  rock  like  this"  —  demonstrating  the  distance  —  "ez 
near  ez  you  be.  He  sees  us,  and  he  dives  into  his  cabin 
and  comes  out  ag'in  with  a  tall  hat, —  a  stovepipe,  gentle 
men,  —  and,  blank  me  !  gloves  !  He  was  a  tall,  thin  feller, 
holler  in  the  cheek,  —  ez  might  be,  —  and  off  color  in  his 
face,  ez  was  natural,  takin'  in  account  his  starvation  grub. 
But  he  lifts  his  hat  to  us,  so,  and  sez  he,  '  Happy  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  gentlemen !  I  Jm  afraid  you  ex-per- 
ienced  some  difficulty  in  getting  here.  Take  a  cigyar.' 
And  he  pulls  out  a  fancy  cigar-case  with  two  real  Havanas 
in  it.  '  I  wish  there  was  more/  sez  he. 

"  '  Ye  don 't  smoke  yourself  ?  '  sez  I. 

"  '  Seldom,7  sez  he ;  which  was  a  lie,  for  that  very  arter- 
noon  I  seed  him  hangin'  ontu  a  short  pipe  like  a  suckin' 
baby  ontu  a  bottle.  '  I  kept  these  cigyars  for  any  gentle 
man  that  might  drop  in.' 

" '  I  reckon  ye  see  a  great  deal  o'  the  best  society  yer/ 
sez  Bill  Parker,  starin'  at  the  hat  and  gloves  and  winkin' 
at  the  boys. 


198  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 

"  ( A  few  Ind-i-ans  occasionally,'  sez  he. 

"  l  Injins ! '  sez  we. 

"  '  Yes.  Very  quiet  good  fellows  in  their  way.  They 
have  once  or  twice  brought  me  game,  which  I  refused,  as 
the  poor  fellows  have  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it  them 
selves.' 

"Now,  gentlemen,  we  was,  ez  you  know,  rather  quiet 
men  —  rather  peaceable  men ;  but  —  hevin'  been  shot  at 
three  times  by  these  yar  'good'  Injins,  and  Parker  hisself 
havin'  a  matter  o'  three  inches  of  his  own  skelp  lying  loose 
in  their  hands  and  he  walkin'  round  wearin'  green  leaves 
on  his  head  like  a  Roman  statoo  —  it  did  kinder  seem  ez 
if  this  yer  stranger  was  playin'  it  rather  low  down  on  the 
boys.  Bill  Parker  gets  up  and  takes  a  survey  o'  him,  and 
sez  he,  peaceful-like  — 

"  '  Ye  say  these  yer  Injins  —  these  yer  quiet  Injins  — 
offered  yer  game  ?  ' 

"  '  They  did ! '  sez  he. 

"  '  And  you  refoosed  ?  ' 

«  <  I  did,7  sez  he. 

" '  Must  hev  made  'em  feel  kinder  bad  —  sorter  tortered 
their  sensitiv'  naters  ? '  sez  Bill. 

" '  They  really  seemed  quite  disappointed.' 

"  '  In  course,'  sez  Bill.   '  And  now  mout  I  ask  who  you  be  ? ' 

"  '  Excuse  me,'  says  the  stranger ;  and,  darn  my  skin  !  if 
he  does  n't  hist  out  a  keerd-case,  and,  handin'  it  over  to 
Bill,  sez,  l  Here 's  my  kyard.' 

"Bill  took  it  and  read  out  aloud,  '  J.  Trott,  Kentucky.' 

"  '  It 's  a  pooty  keerd,'  sez  Bill. 

"  'I'm  glad  you  like  it,'  says  the  stranger. 

" '  I  reckon  the  other  fifty-one  of  the  deck  ez  as  pooty  — 
all  of  'em  Jacks  and  left  bowers,'  sez  Bill. 

"  The  stranger  sez  nothin ',  but  kinder  draws  back  from 
Bill ;  but  Bill  ups  and  sez  — 

"  <  Wot  is  your  little  game,  Mister  J.  Trott,  of  Kentucky  ?' 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  POETE  199 

" '  I  don 't  think  I  quite  understand  you/  sez  the  stranger, 
a  holler  fire  comin '  intu  his  cheeks  like  ez  if  they  was  the 
bowl  of  a  pipe. 

"  '  Wot 's  this  yer  kid-glove  business  ?  —  this  yer  tall  hat 
paradin'? —  this  yer  circus  foolin'  ?  Wot's  it  all  about? 
Who  are  ye,  anyway  ?  ' 

"  The  stranger  stands  up,  and  sez  he,  '  Ez  I  don't  quarrel 
with  guests  on  my  own  land/  sez  he,  '  I  think  you  '11  allow 
I  'm  —  a  gentleman  ! '  sez  he. 

"  With  that  he  takes  off  his  tall  hat  and  makes  a  low 
bow,  so,  and  turns  away  —  like  this ;  but  Bill  lites  out  of  a 
suddent  with  his  right  foot  and  drives  his  No.  10  boot  clean 
through  the  crown  of  that  tall  hat  like  one  o'  them  circus 
hoops. 

"That's  about  ez  fur  ez  I  remember.  Gentlemen  !  thai 
wa'n't  but  one  man  o'  that  hull  crowd  ez  could  actooally 
swear  what  happened  next,  and  that  man  never  told.  For 
a  kind  o'  whirlwind  jest  then  took  place  in  that  valley.  I 
disremember  anythin'  but  dust  and  bustlin'.  Thar  was  n't 
no  yellin',  thar  wasn't  no  shootin'.  It  was  one  o'  them 
suddent  things  that  left  even  a  six-shooter  out  in  the  cold. 
When  I  kem  to  in  the  chapparel  —  bein'  oncomfortable  like 
from  hevin '  only  half  a  shirt  on  —  I  found  nigh  on  three 
pounds  o'  gravel  and  stones  in  my  pockets  and  a  stiffness 
in  my  ha'r.  I  looks  up  and  sees  Bill  hangin'  in  the  forks 
of  a  hickory  saplin'  twenty  feet  above  me. 

" '  Cap,'  sez  he,  in  an  inquirin'  way,  '  hez  the  tornado 
passed  ? ' 

"  <  Which  ?  '  sez  I. 

"  '  This  yer  elemental  disturbance  —  is  it  over  ?  ' 

"  ( I  reckon,'  sez  I. 

" ' Because,'  sez  he,  'afore  this  yer  electrical  phenomenon 
took  place  I  hed  a  slight  misunderstanding  with  a  stranger, 
and  I'd  like  to  apologize  !' 

'  'And  with  that  he  climbs  down,  peacef  ul-like,  and  goes  into 


200  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 

the  shanty,  and  comes  out,  hand  in  hand  with  that  stranger, 
smilin'  like  an  infant.  And  that  's  the  first  time,  I  reckon, 
we  know'd  anythin'  about  the  gentleman  of  La  Porte." 

It  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  the  above  incidents 
are  slightly  exaggerated  in  narration,  and  the  cautious  reader 
will  do  well  to  accept  with  some  reservation  the  particular 
phenomenon  alluded  to  by  the  Captain.  But  the  fact  re 
mains  that  the  Gentleman  of  La  Porte  was  allowed  an  eccen 
tricity  and  enjoyed  an  immunity  from  contemporaneous 
criticism  only  to  be  attributed  to  his  personal  prowess.  In 
deed,  this  was  once  publicly  expressed.  "  It  'pears  to  me," 
said  a  meek  newcomer,  —  who,  on  the  strength  of  his  hav 
ing  received  news  of  the  death  of  a  distant  relative  in  the 
"  States,"  had  mounted  an  exceedingly  large  crape  mourn 
ing-band  on  his  white  felt  hat,  and  was  consequently  obliged 
to  "  treat "  the  crowd  in  the  barroom  of  Parker's  Hotel,  — 
"  it  'pears  to  me,  gentlemen,  that  this  yer  taxin'  the  nat'ral 
expression  of  grief,  and  allowin'  such  festive  exhibitions  as 
yaller  kid  gloves,  on  the  gentleman  on  my  right,  is  sorter 
inconsistent.  I  don't  mind  treatin'  the  crowd,  gentlemen, 
but  this  yer  platform  and  resolutions  don't  seem  to  keep 
step." 

This  appeal  to  the  Demos  of  every  American  crowd,  of 
course,  precluded  any  reply  from  the  Gentleman  of  La  Porte, 
but  left  it  to  the  palpable  chairman  —  the  barkeeper,  Mr. 
William  Parker. 

"Young  man,"  he  replied  severely,  "when  ye  can  wear 
yaller  kids  like  that  man  and  make  'em  hover  in  the  air 
like  summer  lightnin',  and  strike  in  four  places  to  onct !  — 
then  ye  kin  talk  !  Then  ye  kin  wear  your  shirt  half-masted 
if  ye  like  !  "  A  sentiment  to  which  the  crowd  assenting, 
the  meek  man  paid  for  the  drinks,  and  would  have,  in  ad 
dition,  taken  off  his  mourning-band,  but  was  courteously 
stopped  by  the  Gentleman  of  La  Porte. 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  POKTE  201 

And  yet,  I  protest,  there  was  little  suggestive  of  this 
baleful  prowess  in  his  face  and  figure.  He  was  loose-jointed 
and  long-limbed,  yet  with  a  certain  mechanical,  slow  rigidity 
of  movement  that  seemed  incompatible  with  alacrity  and 
dexterity.  His  arms  were  unusually  long,  and  his  hands 
hung  with  their  palms  forward.  In  walking  his  feet  "  toed 
in,"  suggesting  an  aboriginal  ancestry.  His  face,  as  I  re 
member  it,  was  equally  inoffensive.  Thin  and  melancholy, 
the  rare  smile  that  lit  it  up  was  only  a  courteous  reception 
of  some  attribute  of  humor  in  another  which  he  was  unable 
himself  to  appreciate.  His  straight  black  hair  and  high 
cheek-bones  would  have  heightened  his  Indian  resemblance  ; 
but  these  were  offset  by  two  most  extraordinary  eyes  that 
were  utterly  at  variance  with  this,  or,  indeed,  any  other, 
suggestion  of  his  features.  They  were  yellowish-blue,  glo 
bular,  and  placidly  staring.  They  expressed  nothing  that 
the  Gentleman  of  La  Porte  thought  —  nothing  that  he  did  — 
nothing  that  he  might  reasonably  be  expected  to  do.  They 
were  at  variance  with  his  speech,  his  carriage,  even  his  re 
markable  attire.  More  than  one  irreverent  critic  had  sug 
gested  that  he  had  probably  lost  his  own  eyes  in  some  fron 
tier  difficulty,  and  had  hurriedly  replaced  them  with  those 
of  his  antagonist. 

Had  this  ingenious  hypothesis  reached  the  ears  of  the 
Gentleman,  he  would  probably  have  contented  himself  with 
a  simple  denial  of  the  fact,  overlooking  any  humorous  in 
congruity  of  statement.  For,  as  has  been  already  intimated, 
among  his  other  privileges  he  enjoyed  an  absolute  immunity 
from  any  embarrassing  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  His  deficient 
sense  of  humor  and  habitual  gravity,  in  a  community  whose 
severest  dramatic  episodes  were  mitigated  by  some  humorous 
detail,  and  whose  customary  relaxation  was  the  playing  of 
practical  jokes,  was  marked  with  a  certain  frankness  that 
was  discomposing.  "  I  think,"  he  remarked  to  a  well-known 
citizen  of  La  Porte,  "  that,  in  alluding  to  the  argumentative 


202  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 

character  of  Mr.  William  Peghammer,  you  said  you  had 
found  him  lying  awake  at  night  contradicting  the  '  Katydids.' 
This  he  himself  assures  me  is  not  true,  and  I  may  add  that 
I  passed  the  night  with  him  in  the  woods  without  any  such 
thing  occurring.  You  seem  to  have  lied."  The  severity 
of  this  reception  checked  further  humorous  exhibitions  in 
his  presence.  Indeed,  I  am  not  certain  but  it  invested  him 
with  a  certain  aristocratic  isolation. 

Thus  identified  with  the  earliest  history  of  the  Camp,  Mr. 
Trott  participated  in  its  fortunes  and  shared  its  prosperity. 
As  one  of  the  original  locators  of  the  "Eagle  Mine'7  he  en 
joyed  a  certain  income  which  enabled  him  to  live  without 
labor  and  to  freely  indulge  his  few  and  inexpensive  tastes. 
After  his  own  personal  adornment — which  consisted  chiefly 
in  the  daily  wearing  of  spotless  linen  —  he  was  fond  of  giv 
ing  presents.  These  possessed,  perhaps,  a  sentimental  rather 
than  intrinsic  value.  To  an  intimate  friend  he  had  once 
given  a  cane,  the  stick  whereof  was  cut  from  a  wild  grape 
vine  which  grew  above  the  spot  where  the  famous  "Eagle 
lead  "  was  first  discovered  in  La  Porte ;  the  head  originally 
belonged  to  a  cane  presented  to  Mr.  Trott's  father,  and  the 
ferrule  was  made  of  the  last  silver  half-dollar  which  he  had 
brought  to  California.  "And  yet,  do  you  know,"  said  the 
indignant  recipient  of  this  touching  gift,  "I  offered  to  put 
it  down  for  a  five-dollar  ante  last  night  over  at  Robinson's, 
and  the  boys  would  n't  see  it,  and  allowed  I  'd  better  leave 
the  board.  Thar 's  no  appreciation  of  sacred  things  in  this 
yer  Camp." 

It  was  in  this  lush  growth  and  springtime  of  La  Porte 
that  the  Gentleman  was  chosen  Justice  of  the  Peace  by  the 
unanimous  voice  of  his  fellow-citizens.  That  he  should 
have  exercised  his  functions  with  dignity  was  natural ;  that 
he  should  have  shown  a  singular  lenity  in  the  levyings  of 
fines  and  the  infliction  of  penalties  was,  however,  an  unex 
pected  and  discomposing  discovery  to  the  settlement. 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE  203 

"  The  law  requires  me,  sir,"  he  would  say  to  some  un 
mistakable  culprit,  "  to  give  you  the  option  of  ten  days' 
imprisonment  or  the  fine  of  ten  dollars.  If  you  have  not 
the  money  with  you,  the  clerk  will  doubtless  advance  it  for 
you."  It  is  needless  to  add  that  the  clerk  invariably 
advanced  the  money,  or  that  when  the  Court  adjourned  the 
Judge  instantly  reimbursed  him.  In  one  instance  only  did 
the  sturdy  culprit  —  either  from  "  pure  cussedness  "  or  a 
weaker  desire  to  spare  the  Judge  the  expense  of  his  convic 
tion  —  refuse  to  borrow  the  amount  of  the  fine  from  the 
clerk.  He  was  accordingly  remanded  to  the  County  Jail. 
It  is  related  —  on  tolerably  good  authority  —  that  when 
the  Court  had  adjourned  the  Court  was  seen,  in  spotless 
linen  and  yellow  gloves,  making  in  the  direction  of  the 
County  Jail  —  a  small  adobe  building,  which  also  served  as  a 
Hall  of  Records  ;  that,  after  ostentatiously  consulting  certain 
records,  the  Court  entered  the  Jail  as  if  in  casual  official 
inspection  ;  that,  later  in  the  evening,  the  Deputy  Sheriff 
having  charge  of  the  prisoner  was  dispatched  for  a  bottle  of 
whisky  and  a  pack  of  cards.  But  as  the  story  here  alleges 
that  the  Deputy,  that  evening,  lost  the  amount  of  his  month's 
stipend  and  the  Court  its  entire  yearly  salary  to  the  prisoner, 
in  a  friendly  game  of  "cut-throat  euchre,"  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  the  prisoner's  confinement,  the  whole  story  has 
been  denied,  as  incompatible  with  Judge  Trott's  dignity, 
though  not  inconsistent  with  his  kindliness  of  nature. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  his  lenity  would  have  brought 
him  into  disfavor  but  for  a  redeeming  exhibition  of  his  unoffi 
cial  strength.  A  young  and  talented  lawyer  from  Sacra 
mento  had  been  retained  in  some  civil  case  before  Judge 
Trott,  but,  confident  of  his  success  on  appeal  from  this  primi 
tive  tribunal,  he  had  scarcely  concealed  his  contempt  for 
it  in  his  closing  argument.  Judge  Trott,  when  he  had 
finished,  sat  unmoved  save  for  a  slight  coloring  of  his  high 
cheek-bones.  But  here  I  must  again  borrow  the  graphic 


204  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 

language  of  a  spectator :  "  When  the  Judge  had  hung  out 
them  air  red  danger  signals  he  sez,  quite  peaceful-like,  to 
that  yer  Sacramento  Shrimp,  sez  he,  '  Young  gentleman/ 
sez  he,  'do  you  know  that  I  could  fine  ye  fifty  dollars  for 
contempt  o'  Court  ?  '  '  And  if  ye  could/  sez  the  shrimp, 
peart  and  sassy  as  a  hossfly,  'I  reckon  I  could  pay  it.' 
1  But  I  ought  to  add/  sez  the  Gentleman,  sad-like,  '  that  I 
don't  purpose  to  do  it.  I  believe  in  freedom  of  speech 
and  —  action  ! '  He  then  rises  up,  onlimbers  hisself ,  so  to 
speak,  stretches  out  that  yer  Hand  o'  Providence  o'  his,  lites 
into  that  yer  shrimp,  lifts  him  up  and  scoots  him  through 
the  window  twenty  feet  into  the  ditch.  '  Call  the  next  case/ 
sez  he,  sittin'  down  again,  with  them  big  white  eyes  o'  his 
looking  peaceful-like  ez  if  nothin'  partikler  had  happened." 

Happy  would  it  have  been  for  the  Gentleman  had  these 
gentle  eccentricities  produced  no  greater  result.  But  a  fatal 
and  hitherto  unexpected  weakness  manifested  itself  in  the 
very  court  in  which  he  had  triumphed,  and  for  a  time  im 
periled  his  popularity.  A  lady  of  dangerous  antecedents 
and  great  freedom  of  manner,  who  was  the  presiding  god 
dess  of  the  "  Wheel  of  Fortune  "  in  the  principal  gambling- 
saloon  of  La  Porte,  brought  an  action  against  several  of  its 
able-bodied  citizens  for  entering  the  saloon  with  "  force  and 
arms  "  and  destroying  the  peculiar  machinery  of  her  game. 
She  was  ably  supported  by  counsel,  and  warmly  sympathized 
with  by  a  gentleman  who  was  not  her  husband.  Yet  in 
spite  of  this  valuable  cooperation  she  was  not  successful. 
The  offense  was  clearly  proved  ;  but  the  jury  gave  a  verdict 
in  favor  of  the  defendants,  without  leaving  their  seats. 

Judge  Trott  ttlrned  his  mild,  inoffensive  eyes  upon  them. 

"  Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  this  is  your  final  ver 
dict  ?  " 

"  You  kin  bet  your  boots,  your  Honor,"  responded  the 
foreman  with  cheerful  but  well-meaning  irreverence,  "  that 
that 's  about  the  way  the  thing  points." 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE  205 

"  Mr.  Clerk,"  said  Judge  Trott,  "  record  the  verdict,  and 
then  enter  my  resignation  as  Judge  of  this  court." 

He  rose  and  left  the  bench.  In  vain  did  various  influ 
ential  citizens  follow  him  with  expostulations  5  in  vain  did 
they  point  out  the  worthlessness  of  the  plaintiff  and  the 
worthlessness  of  her  cause  —  in  which  he  had  sacrificed 
himself.  In  vain  did  the  jury  intimate  that  his  resignation 
was  an  insult  to  them.  Judge  Trott  turned  abruptly  upon 
the  foreman,  with  the  old  ominous  glow  in  his  high  cheek 
bones. 

"  I  did  n't  understand  you,"  said  he. 

"  I  was  saying,"  said  the  foreman  hastily,  "  that  it  was 
useless  to  argue  the  case  any  longer."  And  withdrew 
slightly  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the  jury,  as  became  his 
official  position.  But  Judge  Trott  never  again  ascended 
the  bench. 

It  was  quite  a  month  after  his  resignation,  and  the 
Gentleman  was  sitting  in  the  twilight  "  under  the  shadow 
of  his  own  vine  and  fig  tree,"  —  a  figure  of  speech  locally 
interpreted  as  a  "  giant  redwood "  and  a  mossy  creeper, 
—  before  the  door  of  that  cabin  in  which  he  was  first  intro 
duced  to  the  reader,  —  when  he  was  faintly  conscious  of  the 
outlines  of  a  female  form  and  the  tones  of  a  female  voice. 

The  Gentleman  hesitated,  and  placed  over  his  right  eye 
a  large  gold  eyeglass,  which  had  been  lately  accepted  by  the 
Camp  as  his  most  recent  fashionable  folly.  The  form  was 
unfamiliar,  but  the  voice  the  Gentleman  instantly  recog 
nized  as  belonging  to  the  plaintiff  in  his  late  momentous 
judicial  experience.  It  is  proper  to  say  here  that  it  was 
the  voice  of  Mademoiselle  Clotilde  Montmorency  ;  it  is  only 
just  to  add  that,  speaking  no  French,  and  being  of  unmis 
takable  Anglo-Saxon  origin,  her  name  was  evidently  derived 
from  the  game  over  which  she  had  presided,  which  was,  in 
the  baleful  estimation  of  the  Camp,  of  foreign  extraction. 

"I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Miss  Clotilde,  sitting  down 


206  A   GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 

on  a  bench  beside  the  Gentleman  —  "  that  is,  me  and  Jake 
Woods  thought  we  'd  like  to  know  —  how  'much  you  con 
sider  yourself  out  of  pocket  by  this  yer  resignation  of 
yours  ?  " 

Scarcely  hearing  the  speech,  and  more  concerned  with 
the  apparition  itself,  Judge  Trott  stammered  vaguely,  "I 
have  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Miss  —  " 

"  If  you  mean  by  that  that  you  think  you  don't  know 
me,  never  saw  me  before,  and  don't  want  to  see  me  ag'in, 
why,  I  reckon  that 's  the  polite  way  o'  putting  it,"  said 
Miss  Montmorency,  with  enforced  calmness,  scraping  some 
dead  leaves  together  with  the  tip  of  her  parasol  as  if  she 
were  covering  up  her  emotions.  "But  I'm  Miss  Montmo 
rency.  I  was  saying  that  Jake  and  me  thought  that  — 
seein'  as  you  stood  by  us  when  them  hounds  on  the  jury 
give  in  their  hellish  lying  verdict  —  Jake  and  me  thought 
it  was  n't  the  square  thing  for  you  to  lose  your  situation 
just  for  me.  'Find  out  from  the  Judge,'  sez  he,  <jist 
what  he  reckons  he  's  lost  by  this  yer  resignation  —  putting 
it  at  his  own  figgers.'  That's  what  Jake  said.  Jake's  a 
square  man — I  kin  say  that  of  him,  anyhow." 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Judge  Trott 
simply. 

"  That 's  it !  That 's  just  it !  "  continued  Miss  Clotilde, 
with  only  half-suppressed  bitterness.  "  That 's  what  I  told 
Jake.  I  sez,  '  The  Judge  won't  understand  you  nor  me. 
He's  that  proud  he  won't  have  anything  to  say  to  us. 
Did  n't  he  meet  me  square  on  the  street  last  Tuesday  and 
never  let  on  that  he  saw  me  —  never  even  nodded  when  I 
nodded  to  him  ?  ' " 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  Judge  Trott  hurriedly,  "I  assure 
you  you  are  mistaken.  I  did  not  see  you.  Pray  believe 
me.  The  fact  is  —  I  am  afraid  to  confess  it  even  to  my 
self — but  I  find  that,  day  by  day,  my  eyesight  is  growing 
weaker  and  weaker."  He  stopped  and  sighed. 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE  207 

Miss  Montmorency,  glancing  upward  at  his  face,  saw  it 
was  pale  and  agitated.  With  a  woman's  swift  intuition, 
she  believed  this  weakness  explained  the  otherwise  gratui 
tous  effrontery  of  his  incongruous  eyes,  and  it  was  to  her  a 
sufficient  apology.  It  is  only  the  inexplicable  in  a  man's 
ugliness  that  a  woman  never  pardons. 

"Then  ye  really  don't  recognize  me?"  said  Miss  Clo- 
tilde,  a  little  softened,  and  yet  a  little  uneasy. 

"I  —  am — afraid — not,"  said  Trott,  with  an  apologetic 
smile. 

Miss  Clotilde  paused.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  could  n't 
see  me  when  I  was  in  court  during  the  trial  ?  " 

Judge  Trott  blushed.  "I  am  afraid  I  saw  only  —  an 
— outline." 

"I  had  on,"  continued  Miss  Clotilde  rapidly,  "a  straw 
hat,  with  magenta  silk  lining,  turned  up  so  —  magenta  rib 
bons  tied  here" — indicating  her  round  throat  —  "a  reg'lar 
'Frisco  hat — don't  you  remember  ?" 

"I  —  that  is  —  I  am  afraid  —  " 

"  And  one  of  them  figgered  silk  '  Dollar  Vardens, '  "  con 
tinued  Miss  Clotilde  anxiously. 

Judge  Trott  smiled  politely,  but  vaguely.  Miss  Clotilde 
saw  that  he  evidently  had  not  recognized  this  rare  and  be 
coming  costume.  She  scattered  the  leaves  again  and  dug 
her  parasol  into  the  ground. 

"  Then  you  never  saw  me  at  all  ?  " 

"  Never  distinctly." 

"Ef  it's  a  fair  question  betwixt  you  and  me,"  she  said 
suddenly,  "  what  made  you  resign  ?  " 

"I  could  not  remain  Judge  of  a  court  that  was  obliged 
to  record  a  verdict  so  unjust  as  that  given  by  the  jury  in 
your  case,"  replied  Judge  Trott  warmly. 

"  Say  that  ag'in,  old  man,"  said  Miss  Clotilde,  with  an 
admiration  which  half  apologized  for  the  irreverence  of  epi 
thet. 


208  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE 

Judge  Trott  urbanely  repeated  the  substance  of  his  re 
mark  in  another  form. 

Miss  Montmorency  was  silent  a  moment.  "Then  it 
wasn't  met"  she  said  finally. 

"I  don't  think  I  catch  your  meaning,"  replied  the  Judge, 
a  little  awkwardly. 

"  Why  —  ME.     It  was  n't  on  account  of  me  you  did  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Judge  pleasantly. 

There  was  another  pause.  Miss  Montmorency  balanced 
her  parasol  on  the  tip  of  her  toe.  "  Well,"  she  said  fin 
ally,  "this  isn't  getting  much  information  for  Jake." 

"For  whom?" 

"  Jake." 

«  Oh  —  your  husband  ?  " 

Miss  Montmorency  clicked  the  snap  of  her  bracelet 
smartly  on  her  wrist  and  said  sharply,  "  Who  said  he  was 
'my  husband'?" 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  I  said  Jake  Woods.  He  9s  a  square  man  —  I  can  say 
that  for  him.  He  sez  to  me,  '  You  kin  tell  the  Judge  that 
whatever  he  chooses  to  take  from  us  —  it  ain't  no  bribery  nor 
corruption,  nor  nothin'  o'  that  kind.  It 's  all  on  the  square. 
The  trial 's  over ;  he  is  n't  Judge  any  longer ;  he  can't  do 
anything  for  us  —  he  ain't  expected  to  do  anything  for  us 
but  one  thing.  And  that  is  to  give  us  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  he  has  n't  lost  anything  by  us —  that  he  has  n't 
lost  anything  by  being  a  square  man  and  acting  on  the 
square.'  There !  that 's  what  he  said.  I 've  said  it !  Of 
course  I  know  what  you  'II  say.  I  know  you  '11  get  wrathy. 
I  know  you're  mad  now!  I  know  you're  too  proud  to 
touch  a  dollar  from  the  like  of  us  —  if  you  were  starving. 
I  know  you  '11  tell  Jake  to  go  to  hell,  and  me  with  him  ! 
And  who  the  hell  cares?" 

She  had  worked  herself  up  to  this  passion  so  suddenly, 
so  outrageously  and  inconsistently,  that  it  was  not  strange 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE  209 

that  it  ended  in  an  hysterical  burst  of  equally  illogical 
tears.  She  sank  down  again  on  the  bench  she  had  gradu 
ally  risen  from,  and  applied  the  backs  of  her  yellow-gloved 
hands  to  her  eyes,  still  holding  the  parasol  at  a  rigid  angle 
with  her  face.  To  her  infinite  astonishment  Judge  Trott 
laid  one  hand  gently  upon  her  shoulder  and  with  the  other 
possessed  himself  of  the  awkward  parasol,  which  he  tact 
fully  laid  on  the  bench  beside  her. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  with 
a  respectful  gravity, —  "deeply  mistaken,  if  you  think  I 
feel  anything  but  kindness  and  gratitude  for  your  offer — an 
offer  so  kind  and  unusual  that  even  you  yourself  feel  that  I 
could  not  accept  it.  No !  Let  me  believe  that  in  doing 
what  I  thought  was  only  my  duty  as  a  Judge,  I  gained 
your  good-will,  and  let  me  feel  that  in  doing  my  duty  now 
as  a  man,  I  shall  still  keep  it." 

Miss  Clotilde  had  lifted  her  face  towards  his,  as  if  deeply 
and  wonderingly  following  his  earnest  words.  But  she 
only  said,  "  Can  you  see  me  in  this  light  ?  —  at  this  dis 
tance  ?  Put  up  your  glass  and  try." 

Her  face  was  not  far  from  his.  I  have  forgotten  whether 
I  have  said  that  she  was  a  pretty  woman.  She  had  been 
once  prettier.  But  she  retained  enough  of  her  good  looks 
to  invest  the  "  Wheel  of  Fortune,"  over  which  she  had  pre 
sided,  with  a  certain  seductive  and  bewildering  uncertainty, 
which  increased  the  risk  of  the  players.  It  was,  in  fact, 
this  unhallowed  combination  of  Beauty  and  Chance  that  ex 
cited  the  ire  of  La  Porte  —  who  deemed  it  unprofessional 
and  not  "on  the  square." 

She  had  fine  eyes.  Possibly  Judge  Trott  had  never  be 
fore  been  so  near  eyes  that  were  so  fine  and  so  —  expressive. 
He  lifted  his  head  with  some  embarrassment  and  a  blush  on 
his  high  cheek-bones.  Then,  partly  from  instinctive  cour 
tesy,  partly  from  a  desire  to  bring  in  a  third  party  to  relieve 
his  embarrassment,  he  said  — 


210  A   GENTLEMAN   OF  LA  PORTE 

"  I  hope  you  will  make  your  friend,  Mr. ,  under 
stand  that  I  appreciate  his  kindness,  even  if  I  can't  accept 
it." 

"Oh,  you  mean  Jake,"  said  the  lady.  "  Oh,  he's  gone 
home  to  the  States.  I  '11  make  it  all  right  with  him  !  " 

There  was  another  embarrassing  pause  —  possibly  over  the 
absence  of  Jake.  At  last  it  was  broken  by  Miss  Montmor- 
ency.  "You  must  take  care  of  your  eyes,  for  I  want  you 
to  know  me  the  next  time  you  see  me." 

So  they  parted.  The  Judge  did  recognize  her  on  several 
other  occasions.  And  then  La  Porte  was  stirred  to  its 
depths  in  hillside  and  tunnel  with  a  strange  rumor.  Judge 
Trott  had  married  Miss  Jane  Thomson,  alias  Miss  Clotilde 
Montmorency  —  in  San  Francisco !  For  a  few  hours  a 
storm  of  indignation  and  rage  swept  over  the  town  ;  it  was 
believed  to  have  been  a  deep-laid  plan  and  conspiracy.  It 
was  perfectly  well  understood  that  Judge  Trott' s  resignation 
was  the  price  of  her  hand  —  and  of  the  small  fortune  she 
was  known  to  be  possessed  of.  Of  his  character  nothing 
remained  that  was  assailable.  A  factitious  interest  and  pa 
thos  was  imported  into  the  character  and  condition  of  her  last 
lover  —  Jake  Woods  —  the  victim  of  the  double  treachery 
of  Judge  Trott  and  Miss  Clotilde.  A  committee  was  formed 
to  write  a  letter  of  sympathy  to  this  man,  who,  a  few  months 
before,  had  barely  escaped  lynching  at  their  hands.  The 
angry  discussion  was  at  last  broken  by  the  voice  of  the  first 
speaker  in  this  veracious  narrative,  Captain  Henry  Symes  — 

"  Thar 's  one  feature  in  this  yer  case  that  ye  don't  seem 
to  know,  and  that  oughter  be  considered.  The  day  she 
married  him  in  San  Francisco  she  had  just  come  from  the 
doctor's,  who  had  told  her  that  Trott  was  helplessly  blind! 
Gentlemen,  when  a  gal  like  that  throws  over  her  whole  life, 
her  whole  perfession,  and  a  square  man  like  Jake  Woods, 
to  marry  a  blind  man  without  a  dollar  —  just  because  he 
once  stood  up  for  her  —  on  principle,  damn  me  ef  I  see  any 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LA  PORTE  211 

man  good  enough  to  go  back  on  her  for  it !  Ef  the  Judge 
is  willing  to  kinder  overlook  little  bygone  eccentricities  o' 
hers  for  the  sake  o'  being  cared  for  and  looked  arter  by  her, 
that's  his  lookout !  And  you  '11  excoose  me  if,  arter  my 
experience,  I  reckon  it  ain't  exactly  a  healthy  business  to 
interfere  with  the  domestic  concerns  of  the  Gentleman  of  La 
Porte." 


MISCELLANEOUS 


WASHINGTON  IN  NEW  JEKSEY 
AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD 

AN    AUTHOR'S    VISIT    TO    HEADQUARTERS — OLD-TIME 

REMINISCENCES  AND  MODERN  VIEWS THE  COMING  OP 

THE  AUCTIONEER'S  HAMMER 

MORRISTOWN,  N.  J.,  JUNE  24  [1873]. 

I  HAVE  been  to  Washington's  Headquarters,  at  Morris- 
town.  The  adult  American  who  has  not  at  some  time  stood 
beneath  the  same  roof  that  once  sheltered  the  Father  of  his 
Country  is  to  be  pitied  and  feared.  The  opportunities  for 
performing  this  simple,  patriotic  act  are  so  ample  and  varied 
that  a  studious  disregard  of  them  is,  I  am  satisfied,  consistent 
only  with  moral  turpitude.  Such  a  person  may,  indeed,  offer 
as  an  excuse  that  he  has  sat  in  a  chair  once  occupied  by 
Washington ;  that  he  has  drunk  from  a  mug  once  used  by 
Washington ;  or  that  he  has  in  his  extreme  youth  talked 
with  an  aged  person  who  distinctly  remembered  Washington; 
but  those  are  supererogatory  acts  which  do  not  take  the 
place  of  this  primary  obligation.  When  we  consider  the 
number  of  roofs  that  Washington  has  apparently  slept  under ; 
when  we  reflect  upon  the  infinite  toil  and  travel  which  the 
great  and  good  man  must  have  undergone  to  place  this  proud 
privilege  within  the  easy  reach  of  every  American  citizen,  the 
omission  to  avail  one's  self  of  it  is  simply  despicable.  The 
Valley  Forge  experience  has  always  been  deemed  a  spectacle 
of  noble  devotion  and  unparalled  self-sacrifice,  but  I  have 
preferred,  I  confess,  to  lie  awake  nights  thinking  of  this 
unselfish  hero,  rising  ere  it  was  yet  day,  hurrying  away, 
accompanied  only  by  his  150  colored  body-servants,  each 


216  WASHINGTON   IN  NEW  JERSEY 

with  longevity  and  garrulity  depicted  on  his  face,  hurrying 
away  in  order  to  reach  the  next  town  in  time  to  make  an 
other  roof -tree  historical.  I  have  thought  of  him  pursuing 
this  noble  duty  with  dignified  haste,  pausing  only  to  pat 
the  heads  of  toddling  infants,  who  in  after  years  were  des 
tined  to  distinctly  remember  it,  until  the  tears  have  risen  to 
my  eyes. 

So  that  when  I  heard  that  Washington's  Headquarters 
at  Morristown  was  to  be  sold  at  public  auction  on  the  25th, 
I  determined  to  go  and  see  it.  It  was  my  first  intimation 
that  it  was  still  in  existence ;  I  had  perhaps  often  passed  it 
without  knowing  the  fact,  for  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  this  kind 
of  property  that  its  historic  quality  is  always  sprung  upon  you 
like  a  trap ;  that  you  are  hardly  safe  in  any  old  tenement ; 
that  you  drop  unconsciously  into  the  Washington  chair,  or 
imbibe  serenely  from  the  Washington  mug,  and  that  the  fact 
is  brought  sharply  upon  you  like  a  pin  in  the  cushion  or  a 
fly  in  the  milk.  In  the  course  of  time  this  expectation  nat 
urally  excites  a  morbid  activity  of  the  intellect,  but  only 
once  do  I  remember  being  mistaken  in  the  result.  It  was 
in  a  Sierran  solitude,  where  I  had  encamped,  and  where 
I  was  solicited  to  take  supper  in  the  newly -built  cabin  of  an 
Eastern  immigrant.  At  supper  I  was  supplied  with  an  or 
dinary-looking  china  mug  of  a  pale-blue  willow  pattern. 
"That  mug/'  said  my  host,  "has  a  little  story  connected 
on  it.  It  has  been  in  our  family  nigh  on  a  hundred  year. 
It  belonged  to  my  grandfather.  At  the  siege  of  Yorktown, 
he  lived  convenient  to  the  battle-field,  and  the  guns  was 
posted  all  around  the  house.  All  of  a  suddent  — "  "I 
remember,"  I  interposed  hastily.  "Suddenly  a  command 
ing  form  darkened  the  little  doorway,  and  a  dignified  but 
courteous  voice  asked  for  a  drink  of  water.  Your  grand 
father  rose  — "  "I  was  goin'  on  to  say,"  continued  my 
host  calmly,  "  that  the  boomin'  o'  them  guns  broke  every 
bit  of  china  in  the  house,  and  that  grandfather  had  to  buy 


WASHINGTON  IN  NEW  JERSEY  217 

a  new  set  next  day,  and  this  yer  one  is  the  last  of  them." 
I  put  down  my  cup  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  the  man. 
His  face  was  calm,  thoughtful,  and  even  sad  —  a  slight 
tremulousness  of  the  left  eyelid,  and  a  depression  of  the 
lower  angle  of  the  mouth  on  the  same  side,  easily  attribu 
table  to  historic  emotion,  were  the  only  evidences  of  feeling. 

But  here  was  a  veritable  Headquarters  of  Washington 
—  based  on  no  local  tradition,  but  standing  boldly  in  his 
tory.  There  had  been  a  temporary  Headquarters  at  the 
Freemasons'  Tavern  on  "the  village  green."  But  the 
house  was  gone,  the  Freemasons  were  dust  these  fifty  years, 
and  on  the  "  village  green  "  the  gray  shaft  that  commemo 
rated  the  Morristown  dead  of  the  last  civil  war  obliterated 
the  past.  How,  then,  remote  and  bloodless  looked  the 
Jersey  campaign  of  '77  beside  the  names  on  this  obelisk. 
How  rusty  those  old  blood-stains  appeared  beside  the  bright 
red,  still  warm  current  of  to-day.  I  hurried  past  it,  and 
out  into  the  leafy  road  that  led  to  the  historic  house. 

It  had  been  my  original  intention  to  take  with  me  a  cer 
tain  humorist  —  a  man  who  had  made  some  little  reputation 
by  a  habit  of  scoffing  at  certain  revered  objects  by  humor 
ous  analysis  of  their  effect  upon  others ;  a  man  who  kept 
you  in  high  spirits,  and  left  you  vapid  and  uncomfortable  ; 
a  man  whose  company  was  a  dissipation  that  brought  a 
dreadful  to-morrow  morning  after  it ;  a  man  who  was  al 
ways  to  be  depended  upon,  but  never  to  be  trusted.  I 
concluded,  however,  not  to  take  him  with  me.  "  You  '11  be 
sorry  you  did  n't,"  he  said  gloomily,  as  he  leaned  against 
a  fence  with  the  settled  melancholy  of  his  profession. 
"  You  're  not  to  be  trusted  alone.  I  'd  like  to  get  a  shy 
at  G.  W.  sometime.  Look  around  his  garden  —  not  a 
cherry  tree  to  be  seen.  Tell  me  that  he  can  get  over  that 
habit  —  that  he  did  n't  sleep  with  a  hatchet  under  his  pil 
low,  and  get  up  in  the  dead  of  night  to  do  it.  And  then 
he  had  no  sense  of  humor.  When  the  staff  were  doing 


218  WASHINGTON  IN   NEW   JERSEY 

conundrums  down  there  one  night,  and  Greene  asked  him 
1  Why  a  gooseberry  was  like  a  Hessian,'  did  n't  he  reply, 
'  General  Greene,  I  cannot  tell  a  lie  —  there  is  absolutely 
no  connection  in  nature  between  the  two/  and  spoil  the 
boys  of  their  little  fun  ?  "  And  so  I  left  him  muttering, 
with  a  look  in  his  eye  as  if  he  were  even  then  elaborating 
a  humorous  account  of  my  visit,  based  entirely  upon  specu 
lation  of  my  character,  and  bearing  every  external  evidence 
of  greater  truth  than  my  own  narrative. 

But  here  was  the  house.  A  canny  walk  and  a  gentle  as 
cent  under  a  few  old  trees  led  to  the  porch.  On  that 
bright  day  of  yellow  June  its  hard  outlines  and  scant  decor 
ation  were  somehow  lost  in  the  gracious  atmosphere.  The 
door  stood  open,  and  I  entered  at  once  a  spacious  hall  — al 
most  the  only  indication  of  the  dignity  of  its  former  occu 
pant.  It  divided  the  mansion  east  and  west,  and  through  a 
rear  door  as  large  as  the  front  gave  a  view  upon  a  descend 
ing  lawn  and  orchard,  and  a  shimmer  of  the  Whippany 
River  in  the  lower  distance.  "  In  the  hottest  day  in  sum 
mer,"  said  the  gentle  hostess,  "there  is  always  a  breeze 
through  the  hall."  Surely  Nature,  at  least,  was  not  for 
getful.  It  was  pleasant  to  think  that  when  the  fervid  July 
sun  scorched  the  elaborate  pink  and  blue  tiled  roofs  of  the 
modern  villas  in  the  avenue  yonder,  that  the  mountain 
breezes  from  those  wooded  heights  that  he  had  made  his 
toric,  loved  to  meet  and  play  and  linger  here.  "  During 
his  time  the  door  was  never  shut,"  continues  the  lady,  like 
a  pleasant  Greek  chorus,  "  but  always  open,  as  you  see." 
Was  it  the  Virginian  habit  still  strong,  or  a  military  ne 
cessity  ?  Think  of  it  in  that  memorable  winter  of  '77, 
when  the  thermometer  stood  below  zero  for  weeks,  and  the 
Hudson  River  was  frozen  over  at  the  Battery  !  Yet  I  am 
somehow  thankful  that  the  humorist  is  not  with  me  to 
comment  upon  this  startling  discovery  of  a  new  and  painful 
youthful  habit. 


WASHINGTON  IN   NEW  JERSEY  219 

Then  we  went  into  the  reception  room  or  parlor,  and  saw 
the  elaborate  antique  table  desk,  opening  in  the  middle, 
—  a  Washington  relic  indubitably,  —  and  then  into  the 
bedroom  where  he  slept,  the  office  where  he  wrote,  the  din 
ing-room  in  which  he  ate,  and  looked  in  the  glass  at  which 
he  shaved.  As  no  one  ever  saw  Washington  with  a  beard, 
and  as  his  habits  were  methodical,  perhaps  this  insignificant 
bit  of  furniture  is  most  characteristic  and  notable.  There 
was  not,  perhaps,  much  to  see.  You  will  find  more  elabor 
ate  old  furniture  in  modern  drawing-rooms.  I  have  stood 
in  more  spacious  and  characteristic  colonial  dwellings.  It 
is  far  unlike  the  Cambridge  Headquarters  in  which  Long 
fellow  is  set  as  a  precious  jewel ;  but  in  its  scant  decoration, 
in  its  faded  and  economic  gentility,  in  its  quiet,  stern  un 
compromising  asceticism,  it  is  full  of  a  Past,  a  Past  entirely  its 
own,  the  Spartan  period  of  the  Revolution.  The  genius  of 
the  place  descends  upon  you  as  you  stand  there.  Even  in  this 
gracious  June  sunlight  you  shiver  and  turn  cold.  Gaunt  faces 
peer  at  you  through  the  windows ;  there  is  the  echo  of  un 
easy,  discontented  footsteps  in  this  hall ;  and  yet  through  all 
a  pathetic  patience  flowing  from  one  lonely  self-contained 
figure  subdues  and  saddens  every  complaining  beam  and 
rafter  in  the  ancient  house. 

It  was  at  this  window  that  the  great  commander  stood 
and  saw  the  mutinous  Connecticut  troops  file  past  and 
clamor  for  the  wages  long  due  that  he  had  not  to  bestow. 
It  was  in  this  room  that  he,  proud  man,  appealed  to  the  al 
ready  impoverished  Jersey  farmers  for  a  few  weeks'  more 
rations  for  his  starving  men.  It  was  at  this  table  that 
he  wrote  that  pathetic  letter  to  Congress.  It  was  here 
that  he  was  "  closeted  closely  "  with  Lafayette.  There  was 
scant  cheer  in  this  little  dining-room  that  winter.  Yet 
here  sat  that  young  West  Indian,  scarce  turned  of  twenty, 
Alexander  Hamilton,  whom  Washington  in  moments  of 
rare  tenderness  called  "  my  boy  "  and  made  recipient  of  his 


220  WASHINGTON  IN  NEW  JEKSEY 

confidence.  What  a  pleasant  staff  appointment  for  a  gay 
young  fellow  :  smallpox  in  the  distant  village  and  famine  in 
quarters.  Here,  too,  sat  the  "  Old  Secretary,"  as  they 
call  him — as  methodical  as  Washington  and  conscious  of 
his  ways ;  and  here  the  turbulent  Sullivan,  and  Howe  in 
New  York  feasting  and  junketing,  and  only  a  river,  dan 
gerously  filled  with  ice  at  times,  between  ! 

And  all  this  to  be  sold  on  the  25th  of  June  to  the  high 
est  bidder.  You  can,  as  you  stand  there  in  fancy,  already 
hear  the  auctioneer's  hammer.  The  setting  sun  from 
without  looks  into  the  western  windows,  lingering  fondly, 
as  well  it  may,  over  the  old  house  that  it  knows  so  well 
—  and  on  whose  like  it  never  shall  look  again.  It  steals 
a  little  higher  toward  the  peaked  gable.  Going,  going. 
There  is  a  glory  on  its  roof  for  a  moment,  and  it  is  Gone. 


WHAT  BEET   HARTE   SAW 

THE  FIRST  GLIMPSES  OF   THE  STRUGGLE  —  SCENES  ALONG 

THE    COURSE THE     ART     OF    WAITING  —  HOW    YALE 

WON    THE    GREAT    RACE 

SPRINGFIELD,  July  17.    [1873.] 

A  BROAD,  still  stream,  swinging  lazily  round  a  curve  — 
that  was  our  first  glimpse  from  the  car  window  of  the  battle 
ground.  Something  on  its  smooth,  glistening  surface,  that 
moved  like  an  undecided  centipede,  proved  to  be  a  shell 
with  its  exercising  crew.  Then  the  fences  got  in  the  way, 
as  usual,  and  the  distant  trees  waltzed  down,  shutting  out 
the  view.  Then  there  was  a  shriek  from  the  engine  and 
we  had  another  glimpse,  this  time  a  flash  of  water,  tremu 
lous,  and  tinted  with  sunset,  blending  in  its  bosom  all  the 
colors  of  to-morrow's  contending  crews  —  blue,  green,  red, 
and  magenta.  It  is  next  to  impossible  to  keep  from  writ 
ing  finely  on  this  subject.  Indeed,  some  of  the  passengers 
were  so  much  impressed  as  to  put  up  their  money  on  the 
staying  color;  but  just  then  the  trees  waltzed  up  again,  and 
we  darted  into  Springfield,  hot  and  dusty. 

How  marvelously  quiet  the  town,  and  how  decorous  the 
beribboned  crowd  beyond.  Even  the  hackmen  did  not  shout. 
There  was  absolutely  no  sign  of  that  feverish  excitement 
that  belongs  to  these  occasions.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
weather,  or  some  blessed  influence  of  the  mysterious  Provi 
dence  that  refers  all  racing,  wrestling,  and  trials  of  physical 
skill  to  the  hottest  season  of  the  year ;  but  there  was  also  a 
pleasing  absence  of  that  unruly  element  whose  outward  and 
visible  sign  is  hair-dye  and  diamonds,  and  whose  speech  is 
ejaculation.  There  was  very  little  of  color  but  in  the 


222  WHAT  BRET  HARTE   SAW 

badges ;  there  was  nothing  spectacular  but  the  array  of  col 
lege  athletes.  The  town  went  to  bed  quietly  by  10  P.M. 

No  less  notable  for  its  propriety  was  the  multitude  that 
this  afternoon  thronged  the  river-banks,  stretching  along  for 
two  miles  to  the  ."  finish''  and  its  grand  stand.  Over  the 
breadth  of  Long  Meadow,  a  gentle,  undulating  plain,  were 
scattered  vehicles  of  every  kind  and  age,  and  fringing  the 
bank  clusters  of  gayly  dressed  ladies,  in  all  the  bravery  of 
their  favorites'  colors,  looking  at  a  little  distance  like  parti 
colored  shells  left  by  the  receding  tide.  The  colors  were 
not  always  harmonious  or  efiective;  the  depth  of  woman's 
constancy  was  shown  by  her  noble  self-abnegation  in  wear 
ing  the  badge  of  fidelity,  without  reference  to  its  consistency 
with  her  complexion  or  toilette.  Harvard  put  the  loyalty 
of  the  fair  to  its  severest  test  —  magenta.  The  majority 
of  masculine  spectators  grouped  themselves  with  that  noble 
disregard  of  the  picturesque  which  is  so  characteristic  of 
the  Anglo-saxon  race,  and  patiently  waited. 

Of  course  there  was  the  usual  delay ;  it  was  utterly  un 
mitigated  in  this  instance  by  any  of  those  reckless  collaterals 
that  are  apt  to  distinguish  a  race  or  other  great  public 
gathering.  The  people  walked  about,  smoked,  and  chatted; 
there  were  few  side-shows ;  there  was  a  mark  at  which  a 
few  credulous  people  shot  with  a  toy  rifle,  but  the  well- 
regulated  collegiate  mind  passed  it  by.  At  the  grand  stand 
there  was  thin  ascetic  lemonade  hypocritically  colored  to  a 
suggestion  of  impropriety,  but  no  more.  Even  the  prize 
package,  without  which  no  American  is  expected  to  enjoy 
himself,  was  absent,  and  yet,  mirabile  dictu  !  the  people 
seemed  to  be  happy,  although  the  fact  thereof  was  not  pro 
claimed  vociferously  from  the  housetops.  Nor  did  I  dis 
cover  any  large-hearted  Springfield  citizen  who  felt  called 
upon  to  bear  witness  to  it  by  profanity,  or  prove  it  incontes 
table  by  a  blow. 

Presently,  the  clouds,  which  had  gathered  during  my  ride 


WHAT  BRET  HARTE  SAW  223 

to  the  " finish"  put  in  an  appearance  with  a  few  drops  of 
rain  that  sent  everybody  to  the  carriages.  Then  there  were 
cheers  high  up  the  river,  that  brought  everybody  to  his  feet 
and  the  bank  again.  It  was  the  Freshman  race ;  then  we 
knew  by  the  peculiar  yell  from  the  bank  opposite  that  Yale 
was  leading,  and  then  there  drifted  across  our  perspective 
three  centipedes  —  one  with  a  suggestion  of  blue  about  it, 
whereby  we  knew  Yale  had  won,  and  those  of  us  who  had 
been  prudent  enough  to  carry  a  variety  of  badges  instantly 
displayed  a  blue,  and  looked  satisfied.  Yet  there  was  but 
little  enthusiasm.  A  few  Harvard  men  —  more,  I  think, 
because  it  was  expected  of  them — said,  "  'E-ah, "  repeatedly, 
and  otherwise  imitated,  with  more  or  less  success,  as  their 
boat  came  by,  the  barking  of  a  monotonous  and  not  over- 
intelligent  dog.  But,  somehow,  we  all  accepted  the  result 
of  the  Freshman  race  as  a  logical  conclusion,  an  effort  of 
pure  reason,  in  which  only  the  intellectual  faculties  were 
engaged,  and  from  which  the  feelings  were  entirely  elim 
inated.  And  then  we  all  waited,  which  was,  after  all, 
the  real  and  abiding  feature  of  the  afternoon.  We  dis 
cussed  sandwiches  and  the  merit  of  the  crews,  and  iced 
coffee,  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and,  like  the  judge 
in  "  Maud  Muller "  looked  at  the  sky  and  wondered 
whether  the  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 
Then  a  shout  on  the  opposite  bank,  whence  a  band  had 
been  playing  a  number  of  things,  but  nothing  intelligibly, 
brought  us  all  to  our  feet,  with  more  or  less  well-simulated 
excitement.  The  great  race  was  coming. 

It  came  with  a  faint  tumult,  increasing  along  the  oppo 
site  side  into  the  roars  of  "  'Rah,"  and  yells  of  "  Yale," 
like  the  Bore  on  the  Hoogly  River ;  and  then,  after  strain 
ing  our  eyes  to  the  uttermost,  a  chip  —  a  toothpick  — 
drifted  into  sight  on  the  broad  surface  of  the  river.  At 
this  remarkable  and  utterly  novel  sight,  we  all  went  into 
convulsions.  We  were  positive  it  was  Harvard :  we  would 


224  WHAT  BRET  HARTE  SAW 

wager  our  very  existence  it  was  Yale :  if  there  was  any 
thing  that  we  were  certain  of  it  was  Amherst  and  then 
the  toothpick  changed  into  a  shadow,  and  we  held  our 
breath,  and  then  into  a  centipede,  and  our  pulses  beat  vio 
lently  ;  and  then  into  a  mechanical  toy,  and  we  screamed ; 
of  course,  it  was  Harvard  — nearly  two  miles  away,  but  we 
knew  it.  A  few  other  protean  shapes  slipped  across  that 
shining  disc,  but  our  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  first  boat 
hugging  the  opposite  shore ;  and  yet,  somehow,  the  great 
distance,  the  smallness  of  the  object,  and  mayhap,  a  linger 
ing  doubt  of  the  color,  abstracted  all  human  and  vital  inter 
est  from  the  scene.  We  hurrahed  because  it  was  the  pro 
per  thing  to  do.  We  grew  excited,  and  carefully  felt  our 
pulse  while  doing  so;  and  then,  suddenly  and  without 
warning,  on  shore  and  here  at  our  very  feet,  dashed  a  boat 
the  very  realization  of  the  dream  of  to-day  —  light,  grace 
fully,  beautifully  handled,  rapidly  and  palpably  shooting 
ahead  of  its  competitor  on  the  opposite  side.  There  was 
no  mistake  about  it  this  time.  Here  was  the  magenta 
color,  and  a  "  'Kah "  arose  from  our  side  that  must  have 
been  heard  at  Cambridge,  and  then  "  Yale  "  on  the  other 
side,  Yale,  the  undistinguishable,  Yale,  the  unsuspected, 
Won! 


AMERICAN  HUMOR1 

I  AM  aware  that  the  magnitude  of  my  title  may  seem 
somewhat  ambitious  for  both  performer  and  performance. 
I  therefore  hasten  to  say  that  I  will  assume  at  the  outset 
that  it  is  doubtful  if  there  is  any  such  thing  as  American 
humor  of  a  nationally  distinct  intellectual  quality.  I  fear, 
however,  that  I  must  borrow  so  much  of  that  which  has  of 
late  years  been  recognized  as  a  form  of  national  humor 
as  to  say  that  it  "  reminds  me  of  a  little  story." 

Some  years  ago  I  was  riding  on  the  box  of  a  California 
stage-coach  with  a  friend  and  the  driver.  As  my  fellow-pas 
senger  was  a  man  of  some  literary  attainment  our  conversa 
tion  fell  upon  some  of  the  early  English  humorists.  After 
my  friend  had  departed,  the  driver,  who  had  taken  no  part 
in  the  conversation,  asked  me :  "  What  were  you  talking 
about,  sir,  that  made  you  laugh  so  much?"  I  informed 
him  that  the  early  English  humorists  had  been  the  topic  of 
conversation.  "  Well,"  said  the  driver,  "judging  by  the  way 
you  laughed,  I  should  have  thought  you  were  talking  about 
some  funny  men."  It  was  probable  that  my  friend,  the 
driver,  occupied  the  position  of  a  good  many  American  and 
English  writers  who  are  inclined  to  accept  modern  extrava 
gance,  which  is  sufficiently  characteristic  of  our  people  to 
be  called  national,  as  the  true,  genuine  humor. 

I  will  try  to  prove  that  our  later  American  humorists  are 
not  so  much  purely  American  as  they  are  modern ;  that  they 

l  Lecture  delivered  in  Farwell  Hall,  Chicago,  Illinois,  on  December  10, 
1874,  and  in  Association  Hall,  New  York,  January  26,  1875.  From  The 
Lectures  of  Bret  ffarte,  Brooklyn,  1909.  Bret  Harte's  other  lecture,  "  The 
Argonants  of  '49,"  is  now  printed,  with  some  changes,  as  the  Introduction 
to  the  second  volume  of  his  collected  works. 


226  AMERICAN   HUMOR 

stand  in  legitimate  succession  to  their  early  English  brethren, 
and  that  what  is  called  the  humor  of  a  geographical  section, 
is  only  the  form  or  method  of  to-day.  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
had  he  been  born  in  the  United  States,  would  have  de 
veloped  into  a  "Danbury  Newsman,"  and  had  Bailey  been 
born  in  London  and  educated  at  Temple  Bar  in  the  time 
of  Sir  Richard  Steele  he  would  have  described  the  humor 
ous  peculiarities  of  London  just  in  the  manner  that  that 
humorist  did.  The  fashion  of  true  humor  has  never  changed ; 
but  if  there  is  no  true  American  humor,  there  is  a  true  ap 
preciation  of  humor.  This  is  an  epoch  of  curt  speech,  and 
magnetic  telegraphs  and  independent  thought,  and  wherever 
these  conditions  exist  most  powerfully,  humorous  literature 
will  be  found  most  embarrassed  by  them.  But  the  humorist 
remains  intact ;  he  is  simply  an  observer.  I  will  go  further 
and  say  that  it  is  because  the  humorist  is  intact,  because  he 
is  old-fashioned,  because  even  in  a  republican  country  he  is 
the  most  tremendous  conservative  and  aristocrat  —  that  it 
is  because  he  is  all  this  he  is  an  observer. 

Before  the  birth  of  its  characteristic  humor,  American 
literature  was  even  more  ancient  than  contemporaneous  lit 
erature  in  England.  Even  Irving  tried  to  reproduce  the 
old-fashioned  style  of  the  "  Spectator  "  in  his  "  Salmagundi." 

I  am  quite  ready  to  believe  that  the  quick  apprehension 
of  some  of  my  auditors  will  anticipate  me  with  the  sugges 
tion  that  the  Yankee  dialect  and  character  are  the  earliest 
expression  of  American  humor.  Unfortunately,  however, 
for  the  theory  of  national  humor,  it  was  not  a  Yankee  or 
American  who  first  invented  it  or  gave  it  a  place  in  Ameri 
can  literature.  Even  as  we  owe  the  characteristic  title  of 
Yankee  to  the  cheap  badinage  of  an  English  officer,  so  we 
are  indebted  to  an  Englishman  for  the  first  respectable  fig 
ure  that  our  Yankee  cuts  in  American  humor.  It  was  to 
Judge  Haliburton,  of  Her  Britannic  Majesty's  North  Ameri 
can  Colonies,  who  first  detected  how  much  sagacity,  dry 


AMEEICAN   HUMOR  227 

humor,  and  poetry  were  hidden  under  the  grotesque  cover 
of  Sam  Slick  of  Slickville,  that  the  world  first  owed  the 
birth  of  true  American  humor.  Later  on  James  Kussell 
Lowell  took  up  the  work,  but,  at  best,  he  only  reproduced 
a  type  of  life  of  a  small  section  of  the  great  American 
Union. 

It  is  to  the  South  and  West  that  we  really  owe  the  crea 
tion  and  expression  of  that  humor  which  is  perhaps  most 
characteristic  of  our  lives  and  habits  as  a  people.  It  was 
in  the  South,  and  among  conditions  of  servitude  and  the 
habits  of  an  inferior  race,  that  there  sprang  up  a  humor  and 
pathos  as  distinct,  as  original,  as  perfect  and  rare  as  any 
that  ever  flowered  under  the  most  beneficent  circumstances 
of  race  and  culture.  It  is  a  humor  whose  expression  took 
a  most  ephemeral  form  —  oral,  rather  than  written.  It 
abode  with  us,  making  us  tolerant  of  a  grievous  wrong,  and 
it  will  abide  with  us  even  when  these  conditions  have  passed 
away.  It  is  singularly  free  from  satire  and  unkind  lines. 
It  was  simplicity  itself.  It  touched  all  classes  and  condi 
tions  of  men.  Its  simple  pathos  was  recognized  by  the 
greatest  English  humorist  that  the  world  had  known,  and 
yet  it  has  no  place  in  enduring  American  literature.  Even 
Topsy  and  Uncle  Tom  are  dead.  They  were  too  much 
imbued  with  a  political  purpose  to  retain  their  place  as  a 
humorous  creation. 

Yet  there  are  a  few  songs  that  will  live  when  ambition's 
characters  are  dead.  A  few  years  ago  there  lived  and  died 
— too  obscurely  I  am  afraid  for  our  reputation  as  critics — 
a  young  man  who,  more  than  any  other  American,  seemed 
to  have  caught  the  characteristic  quality  of  negro  pathos 
and  humor.  Perhaps  posterity  will  be  more  appreciative  of 
his  worth,  and  future  generations  who  think  of  "  The  Old 
Folks  at  Home"  will  feel  some  touch  of  kindliness  for  the 
memory  of  Stephen  C.  Foster. 

Now,  as  we  approach  our  contemporary  humorists,  let  us 


228  AMERICAN  HUMOR 

pause  for  an  examination  of  the  forces  which  for  the  last 
twenty  years  have  been  shaping  the  humorous  literature  of 
the  land.  The  character  of  these  forces  has  entirely  changed. 
The  character  of  the  press  is  different;  all  its  pompous  dig 
nity  and  most  of  its  acrimony  are  gone.  The  exigencies  of 
news  have  stopped  the  stilted  editorials,  and  the  sagacious 
modern  editor  is  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  it  is  a  much 
easier  and  neater  thing  to  stiletto  a  man  with  a  line  of 
solid  minion  than  to  knock  him  down  with  a  column  of 
leaded  long  primer. 

One  of  the  strongest  points  of  modern  journalism  is  its 
humorous  local  sallies.  A  young  man,  graduated,  perhaps, 
from  the  "case,"  writes  humorous  items  in  the  local  column 
of  his  paper,  which  are  read  more  and  are  better  appreciated 
than  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  the  readers  wonder  who  the  ris 
ing  humorist  is  who  has  appeared  among  them. 

Brevity  especially  is  the  soul  of  California  wit.  For  in 
stance,  the  reply  of  "you  bet,"  made  by  a  San  Francisco  burg 
lar  to  the  "you  get"  of  the  householder  who  held  a  cocked 
"six-shooter"  at  his  head.  I  might  also  add  here  the  story 
of  a  notorious  Californian  gambler.  During  the  funeral  service 
the  hearse-horses  became  restive  and  started  off  prematurely, 
with  the  rest  of  the  mourners  in  pursuit.  When  the  horses 
had  been  stopped  and  the  last  sad  rites  were  concluded,  the 
friends  of  the  deceased  wrote  his  widow  a  letter  acquainting 
her  with  the  fact  that  they  had  given  her  dead  husband  a 
good  send-off,  and  that  although  the  unpleasant  occurrence, 
which  they  described,  somewhat  marred  the  solemnity  of 
the  occasion,  it  gave  them  a  melancholy  satisfaction  to  in 
form  her  that  "the  corpse  won."  This  illustrates  the  humor 
ous  but  irreverent  style  in  which  California  newspaper  men 
described  events  of  the  most  serious  nature. 

If  we  are  to  take  the  criticisms  of  our  English  friends, 
American  humor  has  at  last  blossomed  on  the  dry  stalk  of 
our  national  life,  and  Artemus  Ward  is  its  perfect  flower. 


AMERICAN  HUMOR  229 

Personally,  I  fear  there  is  a  want  of  purpose  in  him.  He 
never  leads  and  is  always  on  a  line  of  popular  sentiment  or 
satire.  The  form  of  his  spelling  is  purely  mechanical.  He 
gives  the  half-humorist  slang  of  the  people,  the  kind  of  ex 
pressions  used  in  the  stage-coach,  the  railway  carriage,  the 
barroom,  or  the  village  tap.  If  he  did  not  gather,  he  at  least 
gave  public  voice  to  them.  He  contributes  no  single  figure 
to  American  literature  but  his  own  character  of  showman, 
and  it  is  very  doubtful  if  even  that  figure,  respectable  as  it 
is,  bears  any  real  resemblance  to  any  known  American  type. 

The  Civil  War,  which  found  him  in  the  summit  of  his 
popularity,  did  not  help  him  to  any  better  results.  To  his 
nature  the  war  was  only  an  unpleasant  and  unnecessary 
bother.  In  fact,  during  this  time  his  genius  seems  to  have 
left  him  and  fallen  upon  Orpheus  C.  Kerr  and  Petroleum 
V.  Nasby,  whose  pictures  of  Southwestern  life  are  unequaled 
for  force  and  fidelity.  Artemus  Ward  had  the  good-fellow 
humor  of  the  story-teller,  to  whom  a  sympathizing  audience 
and  an  absence  of  any  moral  questioning  were  essential  to 
success.  His  success  in  England  was  a  surprise  to  even  his 
most  ardent  admirers.  The  personality  of  the  man  as  a  lec 
turer  had  much  to  do  with  his  reception  in  England.  He 
captivated  average  Englishmen  by  his  cool  disregard  of  them, 
his  quiet  audacity,  and  his  complete  ignoring  of  the  tra 
ditions  of  the  lecture-room.  He  wrote  to  me  to  say  that 
the  first  night  of  his  appearance  it  was  a  toss-up  whether  he 
would  be  arrested  after  the  lecture  or  invited  to  dinner. 

It  would  be  hardly  fair  to  look  too  closely  into  the  secret 
of  his  popularity  in  England,  yet  if  they  were  to  settle  the 
question  of  American  humor,  perhaps  it  would  be  well  if  we 
did.  It  was  after  the  war.  Englishmen  were  inclined  to  be 
friendly,  and  their  good  feeling  had  taken  the  form  which 
their  good  feeling  takes  toward  everything  that  is  not  British 
—  condescending  patronage.  Criticism  was  blandly  waived. 
Ward  made  many  personal  friends,  and  he  was  followed  to 


230  AMERICAN  HUMOR 

his  grave  in  Kensal  Green  by  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
men  in  the  country. 

To-day,  among  our  latest  American  humorists,  such  as 
Josh  Billings,  the  "Danbury  Newsman,"  and  Orpheus  C. 
Kerr,  Mark  Twain  stands  alone  as  the  most  original  humor 
ist  that  America  has  yet  produced.  He  alone  is  inimitable. 
Our  line  of  humorists,  it  may  be  remarked,  is  a  long  one, 
but  we  cannot  spare  any  of  them  yet.  We  need  not,  how 
ever,  lessen  our  admiration  for  Lowell,  Holmes,  Irving,  or 
Curtis.  I  do  not  think  a  perusal  of  "Innocents  Abroad" 
will  endanger  the  security  of  the  "  Sketch-Book."  Perhaps, 
after  all,  there  was  a  little  too  much  fun.  Laughter  makes 
us  doubly  serious  afterward,  and  we  do  not  want  to  be 
humorists  always,  turning  up  like  a  prize-fighter  at  each 
round,  still  smiling. 

If  anything,  the  Americans  are  too  prone  to  laugh,  even 
over  their  misfortunes :  they  must  not  be  serious  no  matter 
how  grave  the  occasion.  I  will  relate  a  story  which  is  a  good 
instance  of  this. 

Some  years  ago,  while  riding  alone  through  the  Sierras, 
I  lost  my  way.  Suddenly  I  came  across  a  dark-browed, 
heavily  armed,  suspicious-looking  stranger,  whom  I  would 
have  avoided  if  possible,  but  as  that  was  not  to  be  done,  I 
approached  him  and  asked  him  the  road  to  camp.  The 
heavily  armed  stranger  guided  me  to  the  spot,  and  beguiled 
the  road  with  one  or  two  very  amusing  stories,  one  of  which 
he  had  just  begun  when  the  cross-road  leading  to  the  camp 
came  into  view.  My  guide  accompanied  me  in  order  to 
finish  his  story,  which  was  extremely  humorous  in  its  nature, 
to  within  a  short  distance  of  the  camp,  and  then  departed. 
On  arriving  among  my  friends  I  was  astonished  to  find  a 
sheriff's  posse  there  in  search  of  a  noted  desperado,  whose 
description  furnished  by  them  identified  him  undoubtedly 
with  the  man  who  had,  in  order  to  finish  his  story,  placed 
himself  within  one  hundred  yards  of  his  deadly  enemies. 


AMERICAN  HUMOR  231 

Such  was  the  American  extreme.  Perhaps  our  true 
humorist  is  yet  to  come :  when  he  does  come  he  will  show 
that  a  nation  which  laughs  so  easily  has  still  a  great  capac 
ity  for  deep  feeling,  and  he  will,  I  think,  be  a  little  more 
serious  than  our  present-day  humorists. 


THE  IMPROVED 


FOR    INTELLIGENT    MODERN    CHILDREN 

FABLE  I 
THE    FOX    AND    THE    GRAPES 

A  THIRSTY  fox  one  day,  in  passing  through  a  vineyard, 
noticed  that  the  grapes  were  hanging  in  clusters  from  vines 
which  were  trained  to  such  a  height  as  to  be  out  of  his  reach. 

"Ah,"  said  the  fox,  with  a  supercilious  smile,  "I've 
heard  of  this  before.  In  the  twelfth  century  an  ordinary 
fox  of  average  culture  would  have  wasted  his  energy  and 
strength  in  the  vain  attempt  to  reach  yonder  sour  grapes. 
Thanks  to  my  knowledge  of  vine  culture,  however,  I  at 
once  observe  that  the  great  height  and  extent  of  the  vine, 
the  drain  upon  the  sap  through  the  increased  number  of 
tendrils  and  leaves  must,  of  necessity,  impoverish  the  grape, 
and  render  it  unworthy  the  consideration  of  an  intelligent 
animal.  Not  any  for  me,  thank  you."  With  these  words 
he  coughed  slightly,  and  withdrew. 

MORAL  —  This  fable  teaches  us  that  an  intelligent  dis 
cretion  and  some  botanical  knowledge  are  of  the  greatest 
importance  in  grape  culture. 

FABLE  II 
THE    FOX    AND    THE    STORK 

A  FOX  one  day  invited  a  stork  to  dinner,  but  provided 
for  the  entertainment  only  the  first  course,  soup.  This, 
being  in  a  shallow  dish,  of  course,  the  fox  lapped  up  readily, 
but  the  stork,  by  means  of  his  long  bill,  was  unable  to  gain 
a  mouthful. 


THE  IMPROVED  ^ESOP  233 

"  You  do  not  seem  fond  of  soup,"  said  the  fox,  conceal 
ing  a  smile  in  his  napkin.  "  Now  it  is  one  of  my  greatest 
weaknesses." 

"  You  certainly  seem  to  project  yourself  outside  of  a  large 
quantity,"  said  the  stork,  rising  with  some  dignity,  and  ex 
amining  his  watch  with  considerable  empressement ;  "but  I 
have  an  appointment  at  eight  o'clock,  which  I  had  forgotten. 
I  must  ask  to  be  excused.  Au  revoir.  By  the  way,  dine 
with  me  to-morrow." 

The  fox  assented,  arrived  at  the  appointed  time,  but 
found,  as  he  had  fully  expected,  nothing  on  the  table  but  a 
single  long-necked  bottle,  containing  olives,  which  the  stork 
was  complacently  extracting  by  the  aid  of  his  long  bill. 

"  Why,  you  do  not  seem  to  eat  anything,"  said  the 
stork,  with  great  naivete,  when  he  had  finished  the  bottle. 

"No,"  said  the  fox  significantly ;  "I  am  waiting  for  the 
second  course." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  stork  blandly. 

"Stork,  stuffed  with  olives,"  shrieked  the  fox  in  a  very 
pronounced  manner,  and  instantly  dispatched  him. 

MORAL  —  True  hospitality  obliges  a  host  to  sacrifice  him 
self  for  his  guests. 

FABLE  III 
THE    WOLF    AND    THE    LAMB 

A  WOLF  one  day,  drinking  from  a  running  stream,  observed 
a  lamb  also  drinking  from  the  same  stream  at  some  distance 
from  him. 

"  I  have  yet  to  learn,"  said  the  wolf,  addressing  the  lamb 
with  dignified  severity,  "what  right  you  "have  to  muddy  the 
stream  from  which  I  am  drinking." 

"Your  premises  are  incorrect,"  replied  the  lamb,  with 
bland  politeness,  "  for  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  exam 
ine  the  current  critically  you  will  observe  that  it  flows  from 


234  THE   IMPROVED  .ESOP 

you  to  me,  and  that  any  disturbance  of  sediment  here  would 
be,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  entirely  local." 

"Possibly  you  are  right,"  returned  the  wolf;  "but  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  you  are  the  person  who,  two  years  ago,  used 
some  influence  against  me  at  the  primaries." 

"  Impossible,"  replied  the  lamb ;  "  two  years  ago,  I  was 
not  born." 

"  Ah !  well,"  added  the  wolf  composedly,  "  I  am  wrong 
again.  But  it  must  convince  every  intelligent  person  who 
has  listened  to  this  conversation  that  I  am  altogether  insane, 
and  consequently  not  responsible  for  my  actions." 

With  this  remark,  he  at  once  dispatched  the  lamb,  and 
was  triumphantly  acquitted. 

MORAL  —  This  fable  teaches  us  how  erroneous  may  be 
the  popular  impression  in  regard  to  the  distribution  of  allu 
vium  and  the  formation  of  river  deltas. 


COOTUCIUS  AND  THE  CHINESE  CLASSICS 

TRANSLATED    BY    KI-PO    TAL 
CHINESE  COSMOGONY 

IN  the  beginning  of  the  world,  the  world  was  Ktse 
Kiang,  who  died.  His  blood  became  rivers,  his  bones  gran 
ite,  his  hair  trees,  etc. ,  and  finally,  the  insects  which  infested 
his  body  became  people. 

CONFUCIUS  — HIS  HABITS 

IN  walking,  the  master  usually  put  one  foot  before  the 
other ;  when  he  rested,  it  was  generally  on  both  legs. 

If,  in  walking,  he  came  upon  a  stone,  he  would  kick  it 
out  of  his  way ;  if  it  were  too  heavy,  he  would  step  over  or 
around  it. 

Happening  once  to  kick  a  large  stone,  he  changed  coun 
tenance. 

The  superior  person  wore  his  clothes  in  the  ordinary  man 
ner,  never  putting  his  shoes  upon  his  head  nor  his  cap  upon 
his  feet. 

He  always  kept  the  skirts  of  his  robe  before  and  behind 
evenly  adjusted.  He  permitted  not  the  unseemly  exposure 
of  his  undergarment  of  linen  at  any  time. 

When  he  met  his  visitors,  he  rushed  toward  them  with 
his  arms  open  like  wings. 

HIS  POETRY 

THE  following  was  written  in  his  sixty-fifth  year,  on 
leaving  Loo :  — 

11  Oh,  I  fain  would  still  look  to  ward  Loo, 
But  this  Kwei  hill  cuts  off  my  view  — 

With  an  axe  I  will  hew 

This  thicket  all  through 
That  obscures  the  clear  proapect  of  Loo." 


236  CONFUCIUS   AND   THE   CHINESE  CLASSICS 

In  later  years  the  following  was  composed  by  his  disciple 
Shun :  — 

"  There  once  was  a  sage  called  Confu- 
Cius,  whose  remarks  were  not  few  ; 
He  said,  '  I  will  hew 
This  blasted  hill  through,' 
While  his  friends  remarked  quietly,  'Do.' " 

HIS  ETHICS 

THE  Master  said,  "  One  virtue  goes  a  great  way.  In  a  jar 
of  chow-chow,  properly  flavored  with  ginger,  even  a  dead 
mouse  is  palatable." 

On  Wau  asking  him  if  it  were  proper  to  put  dead  mice  in 
chow-chow,  he  replied,  "It  is  the  custom." 

When  he  heard  that  Chang  had  beheaded  an  entire  pro 
vince,  he  remarked,  "  This  is  carrying  things  to  an  excess." 

On  being  asked  his  opinion  of  impalement,  he  replied 
that  "The  end  did  not  justify  the  means." 

Hop  Kee  asked  him  how  to  tell  the  superior  man.  The 
Master  replied,  "  How,  indeed !  " 

The  Duke  Skang  asked  him  one  day,  "  What  constitutes 
the  State?"  Confucius  replied,  "The  question  is  asinine." 

HIS  JOKES 

One  day,  being  handed  a  two-foot  rule,  Confucius  opened 
it  the  wrong  way,  whereupon  it  broke.  The  Master  said, 
quietly,  that,  "  it  was  a  poor  rule  that  would  n't  work  both 
ways." 

Observing  that  Wau  Sing  was  much  addicted  to  opium,  the 
Master  said,  "  Filial  regard  is  always  beautiful."  "  Why  ?  " 
asked  his  disciples.  "  He  loves  his  poppy,"  replied  the 
Master,  changing  countenance. 

"Is  that  Nankeen  ?"  asked  the  great  Mencius,  as  he  care 
lessly  examined  the  robe  that  enfolded  the  bosom  of  the 
fair  Yau  Sing.  "  No,"  replied  the  Master,  calmly  ;  "  that  >s 
Pekin." 


THE   GEEAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIEE 

On  September  24,  1877,  a  disastrous  fire  occurred  in  the  Patent  Office  at 
Washington,  D.C.  Sixty  thousand  models,  many  valuable  papers,  and 
part  of  the  building  were  destroyed  with  a  loss  of  over  half  a  million  dol 
lars.  Although  the  Government  spent  four  hundred  dollars  a  week  for 
watchmen,  nobody  knew  just  when  or  where  the  fire  started,  and  it  had 
made  great  headway  before  the  firemen  arrived.  Bret  Harte  was  in  Wash 
ington  at  this  time  and  sent  the  following  humorous  "report"  to  the  New- 
York  Sun  of  October  2,  1877. 

"  LOOK  yar,  stranger ! " 

The  speaker  was  a  Western  man  of  quiet,  self-possessed 
demeanor,  and  the  grave,  deliberate  utterance  of  a  man  of 
varied  experiences.  The  person  spoken  to  was  the  gentle 
manly  doorkeeper  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior's  own 
private  office. 

"  There  are  positively  no  vacancies !  All  the  Ohio  posi 
tions  are  filled,"  said  the  doorkeeper,  rapidly  hut  courteously. 

"I  would  like  to  say  a  word  to  the  boss  of  this  yar  shanty." 

"  The  Secretary,  sir,  is  engaged  in  Civil  Service  Keforin, 
and  will  continue  to  be  until  the  next  session.  If  you  will 
give  me  your  card,  in  the  course  of  the  next  six  months  I 
think  you  will  be  able  —  " 

"I  was  reck'nin*  only  to  say  to  the  boss,  thet  just  now, 
bein'  in  among  them  thar  models — " 

"  A  patentee  ?  Sir,  certainly  !  I  beg  your  pardon  !  — 
this  way !  this  way.  Here,  Jo  !  Gentlemen,  patents  !  " 
And  hurling  the  stranger  into  the  arms  of  two  stalwart  mes 
sengers  he  instantly  disappeared. 

Hurried  along  violently  down  the  passage,  dragged  up 
three  flights  of  stairs,  dashed  headlong  through  a  series  of 
antechambers,  the  stranger,  at  last,  gasped  out  to  his  guides : 

«  What  >s  up  ?     What  >s  all  this  ?  » 


238  THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE 

"  Civil  Service  Reform,  sir !  Economy,  accuracy,  dis 
patch  !  Take  him,  Jim,  —  easy  there  !  "  And  he  flung  his 
gasping  victim  into  the  arms  of  a  third  messenger,  who,  grap 
pling  him,  instantly  bore  him  into  the  presence  of  a  clerk 
in  another  department. 

"  Patents  !  "  shrieked  the  man,  and  disappeared. 

The  clerk  instantly  seized  the  stranger  as  he  staggered 
beside  the  desk. 

"  What  number  ?  what  class  ?  when  applied  for  ?  " 

"  I  was  saying, "  gasped  the  stranger,  that  when  I  was 
lookin'  at  them  two  models  —  " 

"  Models  ?     Which  room,  sir  ?  " 

"  On  this  yar  west  side." 

"Wrong  side.  D.K.  West  Division.  Simpkins,  Chief 
Clerk." 

He  was  seized  again,  dragged  downstairs,  upstairs,  but  in 
the  corridor  managed  by  a  herculean  effort  to  break  away 
from  the  guides.  Seeing  an  open  door,  he  entered.  A 
gray-haired  gentleman  was  writing  at  a  table. 

"See  yar,  stranger,  jist  a  minit;  I  was  downstairs,  thar, 
and  I  was  goin'  to  say  —  " 

"One  moment,  sir,"  said  the  gray-haired  gentleman,  po 
litely.  He  entered  another  room  and  a  whispered  consulta 
tion  with  several  other  clerks  was  distinctly  audible.  He- 
turning  and  facing  the  stranger,  he  said :  — 

"I  think  you  said  you  were  about  to  say  — " 

"  I  was  goin'  to  say —  " 

"  One  moment,  sir.  You  have  evidently  mistaken  the 
department.  Caesar  Augustus,  conduct  this  gentleman  in  a 
close  carriage,  to  the  State  Department.'7 

"But,  look  yar,  stranger,  about  this  yar  — " 

Before  he  could  speak,  however,  he  was  seized  in  the  ro 
bust  arms  of  another  messenger,  and  conveyed  rapidly  to 
the  State  Department. 

"I'm  a  stranger  yar  in  Washington,"  he  managed  to  ex- 


THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE  239 

plain  in  the  carriage,  "  and  I  suppose  this  yar  is  the  right 
thing  —  though  I  rather  calculated  to  ketch  the  2.40  train 
to  Cincinnati  to-day  —  " 

But  the  arrival  of  the  carriage  at  the  State  Department, 
and  the  hurried  exit  of  the  messenger,  after  placing  him  in 
the  elevator,  stopped  his  explanation. 

Once  within  the  chaste,  calm  seclusion  of  the  expansive 
building,  he  regained  his  composure,  and  found  upon  exam 
ination  that  he  had  lost  only  three  buttons  from  his  coat, 
and  his  watch.  A  decent  solemnity,  as  of  a  pervading  fu 
neral  in  the  halls,  visible  even  in  the  voice  and  manner  of 
the  respectful  attendant  who  met  him,  tended  to  still  further 
increase  his  confidence.  And  when  he  entered  the  office  of 
the  chief  clerk,  and  that  grave  and  polite  functionary  ap 
proached  him,  apparently  with  a  view  of  offering  him  his 
own  pew,  and  giving  him  a  nearer  observation  of  the  de 
ceased,  he  was  quite  oppressed. 

"  I  was  about  to  say,"  began  the  Western  man  confusedly, 
"  that  if  the  corpse  —  that  is  —  " 

"  I  see,"  responded  the  chief  clerk  civilly,  "  you  refer  to 
the  Secretary ;  but  I  regret  to  say  he  is,  at  present,  absent. 
But  permit  me  to  show  you  to  the  First  Assistant  Secretary. 
William  Henry,  show  the  gentleman  in." 

On  the  threshold  he  was  met  by  the  First  Assistant  Se 
cretary  with  gracious  warmth.  "  I  have  heard  of  you,  my 
dear  sir,  frequently ;  but,"  he  added,  as  he  grasped  the 
hand  of  the  stranger  cordially,  "I  scarcely  dared  to  hope 
that  I  would  ever  see  you.  God  bless  you,  sir !  Permit 
me  to  assist  you  in  removing  your  yellow  duster  —  a  grace 
ful  garment,  sir,  but  still  one  that,  may  I  be  permitted  to 
say,  does  not  entirely,  so  to  speak,  harmonize  with  the  fur 
niture  in  the  room.  This  way,  dear  sir  !  You  will  find 
that  chair  comfortable.  By  placing  your  boots  on  this  end  of 
the  desk  —  pardon  me,  perhaps  you  would  like  to  remove 
them  entirely  ?  William  Henry,  take  the  gentleman's  boots 


240  THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE 

and  bring  my  own  slippers.  I  hope  your  wife  and  family 
are  well  ?  " 

"I  was  only  reck'nin*    to  say — f> 

"Not  a  word  more,  sir, — not  a  word!  I  understand  you, 
perfectly.  You  were  referred  to  us  as  a  person  who  '  was 
about  to  say.'  Permit  me,  sir,  to  state  that  if  there  is  a 
recognized  function  of  this  department,  it  is  the  function  of 
being  ' about  to  say.'  *  What  to  Say/  or  'How  it  is  to  be 
Said/  is,  of  course,  another  matter.  As  a  traveled  man,  as 
a  man  of  the  world,  I  see  you  understand  me.  I  hope,  sir, 
the  chair  is  comfortable.  God  bless  you,  sir  ! " 

"Well,  I  was  reck'nin'  to  say  that  bein'  in  this  yar 
model  room,  over  yon,  in  the  Patent  Office  —  " 

"An  interesting  spot — an  exceedingly  interesting  spot, 
I  am  told/'  interrupted  the  Assistant  Secretary  courteously. 
"  If  I  remain  in  Washington  during  the  next  twenty-five 
years,  I  shall  endeavor  —  yes,  I  shall  endeavor  —  to  see  it. 
At  present,  I  wish  it  well.  God  bless  you,  sir !  And  your 
family,  you  say,  are  in  perfect  health  ?  " 

"Well,  in  this  yar  room  I  smelt  smoke,  and  lookin',  you 
know,  sorter,  kinder  lookin'  round,  why,  dern  my  skin  ef  I 
did  n't  find  the  whole  shebang  in  a  blaze ! " 

"While  your  expressions  undoubtedly  agree  with  your 
impressions/'  replied  Mr.  Seward,  with  a  gentle  smile, 
"  and  while  they  have,  I  admit,  a  certain  degree  of  strength, 
perhaps  inconsistent  with  the  general  theory  of  language  in 
this  department,  might  you  not  have  been  mistaken  as  to 
the  central  fact  ?  " 

"  Which  ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  doggedly. 

"  You  have,  my  dear  sir,  undoubtedly  mistaken  the  genial 
warmth  of  the  greenhouse,  perhaps  the  rays  of  the  still 
fervent  sun,  for  a  conflagration." 

"  Why,  dern  it  all !  —  the  whole  derned  thing  was  a  tin 
der  box,  and  I  saw  —  " 

"  Permit  me  —  a  single  moment  ! "     The  Assistant  Secre- 


THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE  241 

tary  rose  and  gave  a  few  instructions  to  a  subordinate.  As 
he  did  so  the  clangor  of  bells  and  the  rattling  of  engines 
over  the  pavement  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue  came  through 
the  open  window.  The  stranger  rose  excitedly. 

"  Thar !  —did  n't  I  tell  you  ?  " 

The  Assistant  Secretary  only  smiled  blandly.  "Your  in 
ference  is  natural,  yet,  perhaps  scarcely  logical  or  diplomatic. 
In  an  experience  of  some  years  in  the  affairs  of  State,  the 
tinkle  of  bells  and  the  clatter  of  engines  have  not  neces 
sarily  resulted  in  the  destruction  of  the  Patent  Office  by  fire. 
Let  us  look  at  the  thing  largely.  I  think  I  can  convince 
you  of  your  mistake.  I  have  placed  myself  in  telegraphic 
communication  with  the  Secretary  of  State,  now  at  Nash 
ville,  and  with  Mr.  Simpkins,  Chief  Clerk  of  the  Patent 
Office  models.  Their  several  answers  are  already  here,"  he 
added,  as  a  messenger  entered  the  room.  This  is  from  Mr. 
Evarts  :  — 

"  '  Sir  :  The  mere  allegation  of  any  irresponsible  party 
or  parties  of  any  conflagration  existing  in  any  department  of 
the  Government,  unless  first  sanctioned  by  the  President  or 
myself,  cannot  be  received  by  you.  Under  the  circum 
stances,  however,  it  would  be  well  to  observe  the  allegator 
carefully ;  obtain,  without  compromising  yourself,  his  views 
on  the  subject,  and  incidentally,  on  our  Southern  policy. 
You  can  use  this  dispatch  as  a  joke  or  seriously,  as  the  tem 
per  of  the  people  may  warrant. 

" '  EVARTS. 

"*P.S. — I  observe  the  omission  of  the  prefix  "  Honor 
able  "  in  the  wording  of  my  address.  Hereafter  always  use 
it,  without  reference  to  the  economy  practised  in  the  War 
Department.  If  funds  are  short,  dismiss  one  of  the  clerks.' 

"You  observe,  my  dear  sir,"  resumed  the  Assistant  Sec 
retary,  "  that  I  am  frank  with  you.  You  see  the  cruel  po- 


242  THE   GKEAT  PATENT-OFFICE   FIRE 

sition  in  which  I  am  placed.  I  cannot  take  any  view  — 
except  a  social  one  —  of  any  fire  that  may  occur  at  the 
Patent  Office.  Yet,  perhaps,  I  may  satisfy  you  as  to  the 
facts.  This  dispatch  is  from  Simpkins,  of  the  Patent 
Office:  — 

"'1.20  P.M.  —  Up  to  this  moment  I  have  received  no 
official  report  of  any  fire  existing  in  this  department.  On 
the  contrary,  a  heavy  rainstorm  seems  to  be  prevailing  over 
my  office.  There  is  an  elemental  disturbance  outside,  and  the 
floor  is  already  flooded  to  the  depth  of  six  inches. 

"< SIMPKINS,  Chief  Clerk.'" 

"  Then  thar  ain't  any  fire,"  said  the  stranger,  disgustedly, 
rising  to  his  feet. 

"  You  may  safely  assure  your  friends,"  said  the  Assistant 
Secretary  blandly,  "  that  there  is,  de  jure,  no  conflagration. 
God  bless  and  protect  you,  sir,  and  give  you  a  speedy  return 
to  your  interesting  family.  If  you  are  again  in  Washington, 
give  me  a  call.  William  Henry! — the  door." 

"And  I  suppose  I  'm  a  damned  fool ! " 

"The  State  Department,"  said  Mr.  Seward,  rising  with 
gentle  dignity,  "never  presumes  to  pass  upon  the  mental 
qualifications  of  those  who  may  seek  advice,  assistance,  or 
information  at  its  hands!  God  bless  you,  sir.  Farewell." 

An  hour  later,  the  Cincinnati  express  bore  the  stranger 
out  of  Washington.  A  fellow-passenger  in  the  smoking-car 
called  his  attention  to  the  cloud  of  smoke  that  was  rising 
beyond  the  Capitol.  "The  Patent  Office,  they  say,  is  on 
fire."  Firmly,  yet  quietly,  the  stranger  drew  a  revolver 
from  his  pocket:  "I'm  kinder  new  in  these  yar  parts,"  he 
said  sadly,  "and,  mister,  I'm  nat'rally  a  sorter  hopeful, 
mindful  man,  easy  to  manage  —  but  if  ye  're  trying  to  play 
any  o'  them  Patent  Office  fires  on  me —  Well — you  hear 
me?" 


THE  GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE  243 

Meanwhile  the  conflagration  raged — quietly,  unostenta 
tiously  !  A  clerk  of  the  second  class,  exhibiting  a  coat,  from 
which  the  tails  had  been  slowly  consumed  while  sitting  with 
his  back  to  the  wall,  and  a  young  woman  of  the  third  class, 
saturated  with  water,  and  begging  a  permit  to  go  home  and 
change  her  clothes,  produced  at  last  a  decided  impression  on 
the  Assistant  Secretary  of  the  Interior.  He  proceeded, 
calmly  and  firmly,  to  the  office  of  the  Secretary. 

"A  conflagration,  irregular,  incendiary,  and  insubordinate, 
is  now  proceeding  in  the  model  room.  It  is  true  that  there 
is  no  spot  where  a  conflagration  could  take  place  but  there, 
and  it  is,  therefore,  to  some  extent,  consistent  with  the 
habits  of  the  public  service.  Nor  is  it  wholly  without  prece 
dent.  In  1835  the  Patent  Office  was  destroyed  by  fire." 

"Thank  God!  it  is  the  custom,"  interrupted  Schurz. 

"  Owing,"  continued  the  Assistant  Secretary  calmly,  "  to 
the  exertions  of  the  Assistant  Secretary  who  was  badly 
burned,  a  greater  part  of  the  papers  — " 

"I  fear  I  am  keeping  you,"  said  the  Secretary  gently. 
"  You  are  anxious,  doubtless,  to  be  at  your  post. " 

"  —  Were  saved,"  continued  the  Assistant  Secretary  with 
dignity;  "but  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  Secretary  him 
self,  in  attempting  to  recover  the  waistcoat  of  George  Wash 
ington  from  the  devouring  element,  perished,  miserably,  in 
the  flames." 

"  This  is  no  time  to  consider  precedents,"  shrieked  the 
Secretary  wildly.  "We  have  Civil  Service  Reform  which 
abolishes  it !  We  must  do  something  new." 

"  I  regret  to  state,  however,"  continued  the  Assistant  Sec 
retary  calmly,  "  that  an  imprudent  alarm  has  been  already 
raised  by  outside,  irresponsible  parties,  and  that  a  disorderly 
mob  of  firemen —  not  in  any  way  connected  with  this  de 
partment  —  " 

"  Fatal  mistake,"  said  Schurz,  clutching  his  hair.  "  I  heard 
them  and  thought  it  was  only  a  Sioux  delegation  outside." 


244  THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE 

"  They  have  already  introduced — and  are  now  introducing 
—  in  the  department,  by  the  means  of  hose  and  water  —  " 

"  A  Civil  Service  Reform  not  indorsed  by  me,"  screamed 
the  Secretary,  wildly  dashing  his  eye-glasses  on  the  floor. 
"  This  must  be  stopped !  Put  up  a  notice  at  once  referring 
them  to  the  Appointment  Clerk." 

"There  is,  I  understand,  already  a  reservoir  of  water, 
and  considerable  hose  in  the  building,"  said  the  Assistant 
Secretary  calmly,  disregarding  a  stream  of  water  from  the 
one  and  one  half  inch  nozzle  of  a  hose,  at  that  moment  in 
troduced  into  the  window  of  the  Secretary's  office. 

"  Let  there  be  a  force  of  departmental  firemen  at  once 
organized ! " 

"They  have  been,  sir,  but  under  your  orders,  since  the 
fire,  they  have  been  undergoing  competitive  examination 
in  room  97." 

"Good !  Thank  God !  we,  at  least,  present  a  clear,  un- 
mistaken  policy  to  the  world ! " 

"  Unfortunately,"  said  the  Assistant  Secretary,  —  paus 
ing  only  to  pour  the  water,  which  now  covered  the  marble 
floor  to  the  depth  of  two  inches,  from  his  shoes,  —  "  unfort 
unately  two  of  the  clerks  escaped  in  the  confusion." 

"  Great  God  !  " 

"  '  Mose  Skinner,'  who  is  accompanied  by  a  confederate 
named  '  Syksey/  is  now  on  the  roof  directing  the  move 
ments  of  the  firemen.  He  is  an  appointee  from  Mr.  Fish, 
and  is  below  the  grade.  He  spells  traveller  with  a  single 
'  I/  and  omits  the  acute  accent  in  '  de'pot '  —  in  fact  calls  it 
'deepot.'" 

Mr.  Schurz  shuddered  and  gasped  hoarsely,  "We  are 
lost ! " 

"  '  Jakey  Keyser,' "  continued  the  Assistant  Secretary  with 
perfect  coolness,  retreating  behind  a  column  to  allow  a  stream 
of  water  from  a  two-inch  nozzle  to  uninterruptedly  wash  the 
tall  and  commanding  form  of  the  Secretary,  — 


THE   GREAT   PATENT- OFFICE   FIRE  245 

" 4  Jakey  Keyser/  butcher,  of  Spring  Garden,  Philadel 
phia,  originally  intended  for  the  clerical  profession,  on  the 
first  alarm  dashed  from  the  room,  saved  the  papers  of  the 
Land  Office,  went  back  for  Washington's  sword  and  is  now 
supposed  to  have  perished  in  the  ruins." 

"  Just  Heaven !  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  Secretary. 
"For  only  look  at  this  record  of  Keyser's  on  the  competi 
tive  examination.  He  called  the  Swiss  '  Dutchmen/  and 
believes  Switzerland  a  seaport  on  the  Mediterranean." 

The  two  men  pressed  each  other's  hands  in  mutual  dis 
gust,  silently.  Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  two  firemen  — 
the  only  witnesses  of  this  affecting  interview,  who  happened 
to  be  climbing  outside,  in  the  smoke. 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  said  Schurz.  "  Issue  an 
other  order  regarding  the  voting  of  Ohio  clerks,  and  contra 
dict  something  in  the  newspapers." 

"  What  shall  I  contradict  ?  " 

"  Anything." 

"  We  have  still  recourse  to  the  telegraph." 

"  Good,  telegraph  Evarts,  Key,  and  the  President.  Ask 
aid  of  the  Fire  Departments  of  San  Francisco,  Chicago  and 
New  Orleans !  See  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  places 
an  ironclad  at  Pensacola  to  bring  up  the  Florida  engines. 
Cut  down  the  window-awnings.  They  obscure  that  view  of 
the  Interior  Department  which  should,  at  such  a  crisis  as 
this,  be  open  to  the  world.  Do  they  observe  me  from  the 
street?" 

"Yes!" 

"Go,  for  the  present.  Enough!  Where  shall  I  find 
you?" 

"  At  my  post,  sir  !  " 

"  Thank  God  !  This  is  the  result  of  discipline.  Where 
is  that?" 

"  On  the  corner  of  F  and  Seventh  Streets.  You  will 
notice  the  letters  on  the  lamp  !  " 


246  THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE 

"God  bless  you!"  They  fell  into  each  other's  arms. 
Strong  men  fainted,  overcome  with  heat  and  emotion. 

Meanwhile  answers  to  the  dispatches  had  been  received. 
The  first  from  the  Secretary  of  State :  — 

"  A  dispatch  evidently  indicted  by  an  inebriated  employee 
of  yours,  and  addressed  to  '  Bill  Evarts,  Champion  Talkist 
of  the  Hayes  Combination  Troupe,'  has  been  handed  to  me 
as  proof  of  a  fire  alleged  to  be  raging  in  the  Patent  Office. 
I  can  take  no  other  notice  of  this,  or  other  similarly  ad 
dressed  dispatches. 

"  EVARTS,  WILLIAM, of  State." 

"Dismiss  that  clerk  instantly,"  shrieked  the  Secretary. 

"  But  he  is  now  carrying  your  private  papers  from  the 
office." 

"Appoint  some  one  to  fill  the  vacancy." 

t(  But  he  would  have  to  go  through  competitive  examina 
tion  :  that  would  take  too  long,  and  this  man  already  speaks 
German,  and  knows  how  many  moons  Mars  has." 

The  Secretary  was  mollified. 

"  Open  the  next  dispatch." 

It  was  from  John  Sherman :  — 

"  In  a  public  emergency  like  this  it  is  always  safe  to  dis 
miss  a  dozen  clerks,  and  reduce  the  salaries  of  the  remainder. 
The  public  want  something,  and  the  economy  dodge  always 
goes  down.  I  have  placed  four  additional  buckets  in  the 
Treasury.  They  are  fireproof,  and  will  be  of  service  in 
stowing  papers  and  other  valuables.  I  have  issued  orders 
that  no  one  shall  pass  out  until  they  or  the  building  are 
consumed.  An  additional  guard  has  been  placed  around 
the  building  outside  to  prevent  the  lowering  of  ropes,  by 
which,  under  the  thin  disguise  of  saving  life,  iron  safes  con 
taining  valuables  might  be  concealed  on  the  persons  of  the 


THE  GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIKE  247 

so-called  escaping  victims.     Any  fire  occurring  in  the  Treas 
ury  after  this  date  will  be  attributed  to  the  newspapers. 

"  JOHN  SHERMAN." 

"Noble  and  thoughtful  man,"  said  Schurz. 

The  next  dispatch  was  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy :  — 

"  Have  ordered  the  '  Snickaree  '  ironclad  to  proceed  to 
Washington  and  cover  the  Patent  Office  with  her  guns. 
If  this  don't  subdue  the  conflagration,  you  can  call  upon  the 
Marine  Band  and  their  instruments. 

"  THOMPSON." 

"  Open  the  next  dispatch."     It  was  from  Key  :  — 

"  At  any  time  during  the  late  unpleasantness  I  would 
have  cheerfully  shown  how  best  to  burn  up  the  Patent  Office. 
I  even  had  my  eye  on  the  Treasury  also.  But  I  ?ve  re 
formed.  "KEY." 

"We  have  not  yet  heard  from  the  Department  of 
Justice. " 

"  Here  is  the  dispatch,  sir"  :  — 

"  Don't  be  an  ass !  Leave  the  fire  to  the  firemen.  When 
they  have  put  it  out,  make  them  a  speech.  You  know 
the  market  price  of  that  article. 

"  DEVENS." 

"  Order  instantly  everybody  to  report  to  me :  form  the 
several  divisions  into  line  in  the  west  corridor.  Telegraph 
Evarts  to  issue  a  proclamation ;  promulgate  an  order  —  " 

"But,  sir  —  " 

"  Say  that  Carl  Schurz  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty 
—  or  her  duty,  if  a  female  clerk.  Keduce  the  salaries  of 


248  THE   GREAT  PATENT-OFFICE  FIRE 

the  clerks  of  the  first  class.  See  that  everything  that  I  say  is 
published,  and  deny  it  afterward.  Have  competitive  exami 
nations  hereafter  on  fires.  Find  out  what  is  most  combust- 
ibly  effective.  Analyze  the  quality  of  water  now  being  in 
troduced  in  the  building,  and  see  if  the  same  work  could 
not  be  effected  by  cheaper  material.  Report  upon  the  possi 
bility  of  the  Indian  delegation  being  employed  as  fire-water 
men.  Report  that  also  as  a  joke.  Say  that "  —  But  human 
nature  is  weak,  and  the  heroic  Secretary,  wearied  with  his 
superhuman  exertions,  was  beginning  to  succumb — "say 
that  —  a  —  searching  —  invest-i-gation  is  soon  —  to  —  " 

"  But,  sir  —  » 

"Say  that  —  " 

"But,  sir-—" 

"  What  ?  » 

"The  fire  is  out!" 


LONGFELLOW 

As  I  write  the  name  that  stands  at  the  head  of  this  page 
my  eyes  fill  with  a  far-off  memory.  While  I  know  that  every 
reader  to  whom  that  name  was  familiar  felt  that  it  recalled 
to  him  some  thought,  experience,  or  gentle  daily  philosophy 
which  he  had  made  his  own,  I  fear  that  I,  reading  the  brief 
message  that  flashed  his  death  under  the  sea  and  over  a 
continent,  could  not  recall  a  line  of  his  poetry,  but  only  re 
vived  a  picture  of  the  past  in  which  he  had  lived  and 
moved.  But  this  picture  seemed  so  much  a  part  of  him 
self,  and  himself  so  much  a  part  of  his  poetry,  that  I  can 
not  help  transferring  it  here.  Few  poets,  I  believe,  so 
strongly  echoed  their  song  in  themselves,  in  their  tastes, 
their  surroundings,  and  even  in  their  experiences,  as  Henry 
Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

I  am  recalling  a  certain  early  spring  day  in  New  England 
twelve  years  ago.  A  stranger  myself  to  the  climate  for 
over  seventeen  years,  that  day  seemed  to  me  most  charac 
teristic  of  the  transcendent  inconsistencies  of  that  purely 
local  phenomenon.  There  had  been  frost  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  followed  by  thaw;  it  had  rained,  it  had  hailed,  there 
had  been  snow.  The  latter  had  been  imitated  in  breezy 
moments  of  glittering  sunshine  by  showers  of  white  blos 
soms  that  filled  the  air.  At  nightfall,  earth,  air,  and  sky 
stiffened  again  under  the  rigor  of  a  northeast  wind,  and 
when  at  midnight  with  another  lingering  guest  we  parted 
from  our  host  under  the  elms  at  his  porch,  we  stepped  out 
into  the  moonlight  of  a  winter  night.  "  God  makes  such 
nights,"  one  could  not  help  thinking  in  the  words  of  one  of 
America's  most  characteristic  poets ;  one  was  only  kept  from 


250  LONGFELLOW 

uttering  it  aloud  by  the  fact  that  the  host  himself  was  that 
poet. 

The  other  guest  had  playfully  suggested  that  he  should 
be  my  guide  home  in  the  midnight  perils  that  might  en 
viron  a  stranger  in  Cambridge,  and  we  dismissed  the  carriage, 
to  walk  the  two  miles  that  lay  between  our  host's  house  on 
the  river  Charles  and  his  own  nearer  the  centre  of  this 
American  university  city.  Although  I  had  met  him  sev 
eral  times  before  in  a  brief  week  of  gayety,  until  that  even 
ing  I  do  not  think  I  had  clearly  known  him.  I  like  to  re 
call  him  at  that  moment,  as  he  stood  in  the  sharp  moonlight 
of  the  snow-covered  road ;  a  dark  mantle-like  cloak  hiding 
his  evening  dress,  and  a  slouched  felt  hat  covering  his  full, 
silver-like  locks.  The  conventional  gibus  or  chimney-pot 
would  have  been  as  intolerable  on  that  wonderful  brow  as 
it  would  on  a  Greek  statue,  and  I  was  thankful  there  was 
nothing  to  interrupt  the  artistic  harmony  of  the  most  im 
pressive  vignette  I  ever  beheld.  I  hope  that  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  much  younger  man  will  be  pardoned  when  I  confess 
that  the  dominant  feeling  in  my  mind  was  an  echo  of  one 
I  had  experienced  a  few  weeks  before,  when  I  had  pene 
trated  Niagara  at  sunrise  on  a  Sunday  morning  after  a  heavy 
snowfall  and  found  that  masterpiece  unvisited,  virgin  to 
my  tread,  and  my  own  footsteps  the  only  track  to  the  dizzy 
edge  of  Prospect  Kock.  I  was  to  have  the  man  I  most  re 
vered  alone  with  me  for  half  an  hour  in  the  sympathetic 
and  confidential  stillness  of  the  night.  The  only  excuse  I 
have  for  recording  this  enthusiasm  is  that  the  only  man  who 
might  have  been  embarrassed  by  it  never  knew  it,  and  was 
as  sublimely  unconscious  as  the  waterfall. 

I  think  I  was  at  first  moved  by  his  voice.  It  was  a 
very  deep  baritone  without  a  trace  of  harshness,  but  veiled 
and  reserved  as  if  he  never  parted  entirely  from  it,  and 
with  the  abstraction  of  a  soliloquy  even  in  his  most 
earnest  moments.  It  was  not  melancholy,  yet  it  suggested 


LONGFELLOW  251 

one  of  his  own  fancies  as  it  fell  from  his  silver-fringed 
lips 

"  Like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow." 

It  was  the  voice  that  during  our  homeward  walk  flowed  on 
with  kindly  criticism,  gentle  philosophy,  picturesque  illus 
tration,  and  anecdote.  As  I  was  the  stranger,  he  half  earn 
estly,  half  jestingly  kept  up  the  role  of  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend,  and  began  an  amiable  review  of  the  company 
we  had  just  left.  As  it  had  comprised  a  few  names,  the 
greatest  in  American  literature,  science,  and  philosophy,  I 
was  struck  with  that  generous  contemporaneous  appreciation 
which  distinguished  this  Round  Table,  of  whom  no  knight 
was  more  courtly  and  loving  than  my  companion.  It 
should  be  added  that  there  was  a  vein  of  gentle  playfulness 
in  his  comment,  which  scarcely  could  be  called  humor,  an 
unbending  of  attitude  rather  than  a  different  phase  of 
thought  or  turn  of  sentiment ;  a  relaxation  from  his  ordinary 
philosophic  earnestness  and  truthfulness.  Headers  will  re 
member  it  in  his  playful  patronage  of  the  schoolmaster's 
sweetheart  in  the  "  Birds  of  Killingworth," — 

"Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 
As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread." 

Yet  no  one  had  a  quieter  appreciation  of  humor,  and  his 
wonderful  skill  as  a  raconteur,  and  his  opulence  of  memory, 
justified  the  saying  of  his  friends,  that  "  no  one  ever  heard 
him  tell  an  old  story  or  repeat  a  new  one." 

Living  always  under  the  challenge  of  his  own  fame,  and  sub- 
ject  to  that  easy  superficial  criticism  which  consists  in  en 
forced  comparison  and  rivalry,  he  never  knew  envy.  Those 
who  understood  him  will  readily  recognize  his  own  picture 
in  the  felicitous  praise  intended  for  another,  known  as  "  The 
Poet,"  in  the  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  who 

"  did  not  find  his  sleep  less  sweet 
For  music  in  some  neighboring  street." 


252  LONGFELLOW 

But  if  I  was  thus,  most  pleasantly  because  unostenta 
tiously,  reminded  of  the  poet's  personality,  I  was  equally 
impressed  with  the  local  color  of  his  poetry  in  the  surround 
ing  landscape.  We  passed  the  bridge  where  he  had  once 
stood  at  midnight,  and  saw,  as  he  had  seen,  the  moon 

"Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinking  in  the  sea  "  ; 

we  saw,  as  Paul  Revere  once  saw, 

"the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight " ; 

and  passing  a  plain  Puritan  church,  whose  uncompromising 
severity  of  style  even  the  tender  graces  of  the  moon  could 
not  soften,  I  knew  that  it  must  have  been  own  brother  to 
the  "  meeting-house  "  at  Lexington,  where 

"windows,  blank  and  bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast, 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon." 

Speaking  of  these  spiritual  suggestions  in  material  things, 
I  remember  saying  that  I  thought  there  must  first  be  some 
actual  resemblance,  which  unimaginative  people  must  see 
before  the  poet  could  successfully  use  them.  I  instanced 
the  case  of  his  own  description  of  a  camel  as  being  "  weary " 
and  "  baring  his  teeth,"  and  added  that  I  had  seen  them 
throw  such  infinite  weariness  into  that  action  after  a  day's 
journey  as  to  set  spectators  yawning.  He  seemed  surprised, 
so  much  so  that  I  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  many — fully 
believing  he  had  traveled  in  the  desert.  He  replied  simply, 
"No,"  that  he  had  "only  seen  one  once  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes."  Yet  in  that  brief  moment  he  had  noted  a  dis 
tinctive  fact,  which  the  larger  experience  of  others  fully 
corroborated. 

We  reached  his  house  —  fit  goal  for  a  brief  journey 
filled  with  historical  reminiscences,  for  it  was  one  of  the 
few  old  colonial  mansions,  relics  of  a  bygone  age,  still  left 


LONGFELLOW  253 

intact.  A  foreigner  of  great  distinction  had  once  dwelt 
there ;  later  it  had  been  the  headquarters  of  General  Wash 
ington.  Stately  only  in  its  size  and  the  liberality  of  its 
offices,  it  stood  back  from  the  street,  guarded  by  the  gaunt 
arms  of  venerable  trees.  We  entered  the  spacious  central 
hall,  with  no  sound  in  the  silent  house  but  the  ticking  of 
that  famous  clock  on  the  staircase  — the  clock  whose  "  For 
ever — never!  Never  —  forever!"  has  passed  into  poetic 
immortality.  The  keynote  of  association  and  individuality 
here  given  filled  the  house  with  its  monotone ;  scarcely  a 
room  had  not  furnished  a  theme  or  a  suggestion,  found  and 
recognized  somewhere  in  the  poet's  song ;  where  the  room 
whose  tiled  hearth  still  bore  the  marks  of  the  grounding  of 
the  heavy  muskets  of  soldiery  in  the  troublous  times;  the 
drawing-room  still  furnished  as  Washington  had  left  it ;  the 
lower  stairway,  in  whose  roofed  recess  the  poet  himself  had 
found  a  casket  of  love-letters  which  told  a  romance  and  in 
trigue  of  the  past ;  or  the  poet's  study,  which  stood  at  the 
right  of  the  front  door.  It  was  here  that  the  ghosts  most 
gathered,  and  as  my  guide  threw  aside  his  mantle  and  drew 
an  easy-chair  to  the  fireside,  he  looked  indeed  the  genius  of 
the  place.  He  had  changed  his  evening  dress  for  a  dark 
velvet  coat,  against  which  his  snowy  beard  and  long  flowing 
locks  were  strikingly  relieved.  It  was  the  costume  of  one 
of  his  best  photographs ;  the  costume  of  an  artist  who  with 
out  vanity  would  carry  his  taste  even  to  the  details  of  his 
dress.  The  firelight  lit  up  this  picturesque  figure,  gleamed 
on  the  "various  spoils  of  various  climes"  gathered  in  the 
tasteful  apartment,  revealed  the  shadowy  depths  of  the 
bookshelves,  where  the  silent  company,  the  living  children 
of  dead  and  gone  poets,  were  ranged,  and  lost  itself  in  the 
gusty  curtains. 

As  we  sat  together  the  wind  began  its  old  song  in  the 
chimney,  but  with  such  weird  compass  and  combination  of 
notes  that  it  seemed  the  call  of  a  familiar  spirit.  "It  is  a 


254  LONGFELLOW 

famous  chimney,"  said  the  poet,  leaning  over  the  fire,  "  and 
has  long  borne  a  local  reputation  for  its  peculiar  song.  Ole 
Bull,  sitting  in  your  chair  one  night,  caught  it  quite  with 
his  instrument." 

Under  the  same  overpowering  domination  of  himself  and 
his  own  personality,  here  as  elsewhere,  I  could  not  help  re 
membering  how  he  himself  had  caught  and  transfigured  not 
only  its  melody,  but  its  message,  in  that  most  perfect  of 
human  reveries,  "  The  Wind  over  the  Chimney." 

"  But  the  night  wind  cries,  '  Despair  1 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks  ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 
These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

"  'Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought ; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 
Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread.' 

"  Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down ; 
Sink  the  rumors  of  renown  ; 

And  alone  the  night  wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer,  — 
"Tis  the  brand  of  Meleager 

Dying  on  the  hearthstone  here! ' 

"  And  I  answer,  —  '  Though  it  be, 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain ; 
Its  reward  is  in  the  doing, 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain.'  " 

Why  should  not  the  ghosts  gather  here  ?  Into  this 
quaint  historic  house  he  had  brought  the  poet's  retentive 
memory  filled  with  the  spoils  of  foreign  climes.  He  had 
built  his  nest  with  rare  seeds,  grasses,  and  often  the  stray 
feathers  of  other  song  birds  gathered  in  his  flight.  Into 
it  had  come  the  great  humanities  of  life,  the  bridal  pro- 


LONGFELLOW  255 

cession,  the  christening,  death  —  death  in  a  tragedy  that 
wrapped  those  walls  in  flames,  bore  away  the  faithful  young 
mother  and  left  a  gap  in  the  band  of  "  blue-eyed  banditti" 
who  used  to  climb  the  poet's  chair.  The  keynote  of  that 
sublime  resignation  and  tender  philosophy  which  has  over 
flowed  so  many  hearts  with  pathetic  endurance  was  struck 
here;  it  was  no  cold  abstract  sermon  preached  from  an  in 
tellectual  pulpit,  but  the  daily  lessons  of  experience,  of 
chastened  trial  shaped  into  melodious  thought.  How  could 
we  help  but  reverence  the  instrument  whose  smitten  chords 
had  given  forth  such  noble  "  Psalms  of  Life7'  ? 

Such  is  the  picture  conjured  by  his  name.  Near  and 
more  recent  contact  with  him  never  dimmed  its  tender  out 
lines.  I  like  now  to  remember  that  I  last  saw  him  in  the 
same  quaint  house,  but  with  the  glorious  mellow  autumnal 
setting  of  the  New  England  year,  and  the  rich,  garnered 
fulness  of  his  own  ripe  age.  There  was  no  suggestion  of 
the  end  m  his  deep  kind  eyes,  in  his  deep-veiled  voice,  or 
in  his  calm  presence ;  characteristically  it  had  been  faintly 
voiced  in  his  address  to  his  classmates  of  fifty  years  before. 
He  had  borrowed  the  dying  salutation  of  the  gladiator  in 
the  Roman  arena  only  to  show  that  he  expected  death,  but 
neither  longed  for  it  nor  feared  it. 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ME.  LOWELL 

OP  the  many  spontaneous  and  critical  tributes  paid  lately 
to  the  admirable  gifts  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  I  recall 
but  one  where  allusion  was  made  to  their  early  and  prompt 
recognition  by  a  contemporaneous  public.  Yet  it  was  well 
known  that  he  had  never  experienced  the  hesitating  and 
probationary  struggles  of  the  literary  life ;  that  he  had  under 
gone  none  of  the  tentative  trials  of  talent,  and  that,  without 
exciting  any  of  the  perturbing  effects  of  a  literary  comet, 
he  was,  nevertheless,  as  completely  successful  at  the  begin 
ning  of  that  brilliant  career  just  closed  as  he  was  at  its 
fullest  finish.  This  was  the  more  singular,  since  the  per 
formances  of  a  political  satirist,  a  didactic  poet,  a  thoughtful 
and  cultivated  essayist  do  not  usually  secure  that  immediate 
popularity  accorded  to  the  latest  humorist  or  story-teller. 
For,  although  Mr.  Lowell  had  humor,  it  was  subordinate  to 
his  controversial  purpose,  and,  undoubted  as  was  his  lyric 
power,  in  his  most  stirring  passages  the  moral  effort  was 
apt  to  be  painfully  and  Puritanically  obvious.  But  he  was 
always  popular,  and  I  feel  it  is  no  mere  loyalty  to  old  im 
pressions  when  I  can  remember  that  he  was  one  of  my  boy 
ish  heroes  as  well  as  the  admiration  of  my  maturer  years, 
for  he  belonged  to  us  all  in  the  "  School  Beaders"  of  America, 
and  the  man  who  was  stirred  in  later  years  by  the  war  lyrics 
of  1864  could  recall  how  his  youthful  pulse  had  been  mys 
teriously  thrilled  by  the  then  prophetic  "  When  a  deed  is 
done  for  Freedom."  Whatever  ideal  Mr.  Lowell  may  have 
had  in  his  own  inner  consciousness,  —  in  spite  of  the  play 
ful  portrait  he  has  given  of  himself  in  the  "Fable  for 
Critics, "  —  outwardly,  at  least,  the  work  of  his  manhood 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.  LOWELL      257 

seemed  to  have  fulfilled  the  ambition,  as  it  had  the  promise, 
of  his  youth.  A  strong  satirical  singer,  who  at  once  won 
the  applause  of  a  people  inclined  to  prefer  sentiment  and 
pathos  in  verse ;  an  essayist  who  held  his  own  beside  such 
men  as  Emerson,  Thoreau,  and  Holmes ;  an  ironical  biog 
rapher  in  the  land  of  the  historian  of  the  Knickerbockers ; 
and  an  unselfish,  uncalculating  patriot  selected  to  represent 
a  country  where  partisan  politics  and  party  service  were  too 
often  the  only  test  of  fitness  —  this  was  his  triumphant  re 
cord.  His  death  seems  to  have  left  no  trust  or  belief  of 
his  admirers  betrayed  or  disappointed.  The  critic  has  not 
yet  risen  to  lament  a  wasted  opportunity,  to  point  out  a 
misdirected  talent,  or  to  tell  us  that  he  expected  more  or  less 
than  Mr.  Lowell  gave !  wonderful  and  rounded  finish  of  an 
intellectual  career. 

Yet  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  his  early  success  as 
well  as  his  strength  lay  in  Ijis  keen  instinctive  insight  into 
the  personal  character  of  the  New  Englander.  He  had  by 
no  means  created  the  "  Yankee "  in  literature,  neither  had 
he  been  the  first  to  use  the  Yankee  dialect.  Judge  Hall- 
burton,  a  writer  of  more  unqualified  English  blood,  had  al 
ready  drawn  "  Sam  Slick,"  but  it  was  the  Yankee  regarded 
from  the  "  outside,"  —  as  he  was  wont  to  aggressively  present 
himself  to  the  neighboring  "  Blue  Noses  "  ;  —  and  although 
the  picture  was  not  without  occasional  graceful  and  poetic 
touches,  that  poetry  and  grace  was  felt  to  be  Judge  Hali- 
burton's  rather  than  Sam  Slick's.  It  may  interest  the  curi 
ous  reader  to  compare  the  pretty  prose  fancy  of  Sam  Slick's 
dream  with  the  genuine  ring  of  "  Hosea  Biglow's  CourtinV' 
Dr.  Judd's  "  Margaret"  —  a  novel,  I  fear,  unknown  to 
most  Englishmen  — was  already  a  New  England  classic  when 
Hosea  Biglow  was  born.  It  was  a  dialect  romance  —  so 
provincial  as  to  be  almost  unintelligible  to  even  the  average 
American  reader,  but  while  it  was  painted  with  a  coarse 
Flemish  fidelity,  its  melodrama  was  conventional  and  im- 


258  A  FEW   WORDS  ABOUT  MR.   LOWELL 

ported.  It  remained  for  Mr.  Lowell  alone  to  discover  and 
portray  the  real  Yankee  —  that  wonderful  evolution  of  the 
English  Puritan,  who  had  shaken  off  the  forms  and  super 
stitions,  the  bigotry  and  intolerance,  of  religion,  but  never 
the  deep  consciousness  of  God.  It  was  true  that  it  was  not 
only  an  allwise  God,  but  a  God  singularly  perspicacious  of 
wily  humanity;  a  God  that  you  had  "to  get  up  early "  to 
"  take  in  " ;  a  God  who  encouraged  familiarity,  who  did  not 
reveal  Himself  in  vague  thunders,  nor  answer  out  of  a 
whirlwind  of  abstraction ;  who  did  not  hold  a  whole  race  re 
sponsible  —  but  "  sent  the  bill "  directly  to  the  individual 
debtor.  It  was  part  of  Mr.  Lowell's  art  to  contrast  this 
rude  working-Christian  Biglow  with  the  older-fashioned 
Puritan  parson  Wilbur,  still  wedded  to  his  creed  and  his 
books.  The  delightful  pedant  is  no  less  strong  and  charac 
teristic  than  his  protege,  though  perhaps  not  as  amusing  and 
original,  and  there  is  always  a  faint  reminiscence  of  the 
"  Dominie  "  in  literature  whom  we  all  remember  in  some 
shape  or  another  !  but  to  Mr.  Lowell  belongs  the  delightful 
conceit  of  making  him  the  patron  of  the  irreverent  and  revo 
lutionary  Hosea,  who  already  usurped  his  functions  as  a 
moralist.  Yet  clever  as  was  the  "  swaller-tailed  talk  "  of 
the  parson,  one  is  conscious  that  it  is  mere  workmanship, 
and  that  at  best  it  is  but  humorous  translation  artistically 
done.  It  is  the  rude  dialect  of  Hosea  that  is  alone  real  and 
vital.  For  this  is  not  the  "  Yankee  talk  "  of  tradition,  of 
the  story-books  and  the  stage,  —  tricks  of  pronunciation, 
illiterate  spelling,  and  epithet,  —  but  the  revelation  of  the 
character,  faith,  work,  and  even  scenery  of  a  people,  in 
words  more  or  less  familiar,  but  always  in  startling  and 
novel  combination  and  figurative  phrasing.  New  England 
rises  before  us,  with  its  hard  social  life,  its  scant  amuse 
ments,  always  sternly  and  pathetically  conjoined  with  re 
ligious,  patriotic,  or  political  duty  in  the  "  meetings,"  "  train 
ing,"  or  "  caucus  " ;  with  its  relentless  climate  mitigated 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.  LOWELL      259 

by  those  rare  outbursts  of  graciousness  that  were  like  His 
special  revelations ;  with  the  grim  economy  of  living,  the 
distrust  of  art  which  perhaps  sent  the  people  to  the  woods 
and  fields  for  beauty  ;  the  human  passion  that  asserted  itself 
in  a  homely  dramatic  gesture  ;  —  these  move  and  live  again 
in  honest  Hosea's  idiom.  Without  multiplying  examples 
one  may  take  that  perfect  crystallization  of  New  England  — 
the  white  winter  idyll  of  "  The  Courtin'."  In  the  first 
word  the  keynote  of  the  Puritan  life  is  struck :  — 

"God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still." 

The  familiar  personal  Deity  is  there  —  no  pantheistic  ab 
straction,  conventional  muse,  nor  wanton  classic  goddess, 
but  the  New  Englander's  Very  God.  Again  and  again 
through  the  verses  of  that  matchless  pastoral  the  religious 
chord  is  struck ;  weak  human  passion  and  grim  piety  walk 
hand-in-hand  to  its  grave  measure ;  to  look  at  the  pretty 
Huldy  in  her  cozy  kitchen  was  "  kin'  o*  kingdom-come  " ; 
when,  on  Sunday,  in  the  choir,  Zekle  "made  Ole  Hunderd 
ring,  she  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher  "  ;  with  his  eyes  on 
the  cover  of  her  "  meetm'-bunnet,"  she  blushes  scarlet  "  right 
in  prayer,''  and  the  loving  but  discreet  pastoral  closes  with 
the  assurance  that 

"  They  wuz  cried 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday." 

Equally  strong  and  true  with  the  grim  pathos  of  this 
courtship,  mitigated  by  religious  observances,  are  the  few 
touches  that  discover  the  whole  history  of  the  Revolution 
and  its  "  embattled  farmers  "  in  the  "  ole  queen' s-arm  "  over 
the  chimney ;  that  reveal  the  economic  domestic  life  in  the 
picture  of  the  hard-working  mother  utilizing  her  discreet  pro 
pinquity  by  "  sprinklin'  clo'es  agin  to-morrow's  i'nin' "  in 
the  next  room,  and  the  fair  Huldy  herself  dividing  her 
blushes  with  "  the  apples  she  was  peelin'."  The  hard, 
realistic  picture  is  lifted  into  the  highest  poetry  by  two  or 


260      A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.  LOWELL 

three  exquisite  similes  —  conceits  that  carry  conviction  be 
cause  they  are  within  the  inventive  capacity  of  the  quaint 
narrator,  and  the  outcome  of  his  observation.  Take  such 
perfect  examples  as :  — 

"  But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  brushed  felt  full  o'  tun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 


"  All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 
Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 


"  When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 
And  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

"For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 
Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 


"Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy." 

The  last  simile  is  the  only  one  that  might  be  thought  in 
consistent  with  the  young  farmer's  capacity.  But  then  the 
American  schoolboy — inheritor  of  avast  continent  —  was 
always  up  in  his  geography  —  and  for  the  matter  of  that  in 
his  natural  phenomena,  too. 

As  to  the  origin  and  genius  of  this  wonderful  dialect,  Mr. 
Lowell  has  estopped  criticism  and  inquiry  with  an  essay 
that  has  exhausted  the  subject;  it  would  be  difficult  to 
glean  where  he  has  reaped,  and  one  does  not  care  to  refute 
his  arguments,  if  one  could.  One  is  not  concerned  to  know 
that  much  of  the  so-called  dialect  is  Old  English,  and  that 
among  the  other  sturdy  things  the  Puritan  carried  over  with 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.   LOWELL  261 

him  was  the  integrity  of  the  language.  Enough  for  us  that 
it  was  the  picturesque  interpretation  of  the  New  England 
life  and  character.  Critic  of  the  New  Englander  as  he  was, 
he  was  first  and  last  always  one  of  them.  Like  Bramah  he 
may  have  heen  the  "  Doubter  and  the  Doubt,"  but  he  was 
also  "  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings." 

But  Mr.  Lowell  was  more  of  an  Englishman  than  an  Ameri 
can  —  in  the  broadest  significance  of  the  latter  term.  His 
English  blood  had  been  unmixed  for  two  generations,  with 
the  further  English  insulation  of  tradition,  family,  and  lo 
cality.  In  the  colonial  homestead  the  initials  "  G.  R." 
were  still  legible  on  the  keystone  of  the  chimney,  and  from 
what  he  has  told  us  of  his  great-grandmother,  it  might  have 
been  also  engraven  on  her  heart  —  if  a  sentimental  interest  in 
Royalty  were  an  uncommon  weakness  of  the  American 
woman.  The  family  seem  to  have  had  none  of  those  vicis 
situdes  of  fortune  or  restless  ambition  which  compel  the 
average  American  to  " go  West"  or  otherwise  change  his 
habitat.  He  knew  little  of  the  life  and  character  of  the 
West  and  South  —  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  never  greatly 
understood  or  sympathized  with  either.  His  splendid  anti- 
slavery  services  were  the  outcome  of  moral  conviction,  and  not 
the  result  of  a  deliberate  survey  of  the  needs  and  policy  of  a 
nation.  In  his  most  powerful  diatribes,  there  was  always 
this  reiteration  of  an  abstract  Bight  and  Wrong  that  was 
quite  as  much  the  utterance  of  Exeter  Hall  as  of  Elmwood. 
Only  once  does  a  consideration  of  the  other  side  occur,  and 
that  is  a  note  of  human  compassion :  — 

"  My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain  ;  my  mouth 

Will  take  to  twitchin'  roun'  the  corners; 
I  pity  mothers  too  down  South, 
For  all  they  sot  among  the  scorners." 

But  the  whole  instinct  is  as  aggressive  and  uncompro 
mising  as  the  ante-bellum  English  expression  had  been,  and 
an  Englishman  should  find  no  difficulty  in  understand- 


262  A  FEW  WORDS   ABOUT  MR.   LOWELL 

ing  the  burst  of  equally  intense  indignation  which  England's 
abandonment  of  that  attitude  excited  in  Mr.  Lowell  and 
was  resented  in  "Jonathan  to  John."  It  was  also  this 
consciousness  of  his  own  integrity  as  a  transplanted  English 
man,  who  had  kept  the  best  traditions  of  the  race,  which 
made  him  unduly  sensitive  to  English  criticism  and  gave  a 
wholesome  bitterness  to  his  manly  protest  to  "  A  Certain 
Condescension  to  Foreigners."  One  does  not  care  to  be 
called  "  provincial "  by  one's  own  cousins  for  exhibiting  the 
family  traits  more  distinctly  than  they  do,  and  Mr.  Lowell's 
sensitiveness  was  English  rather  than  American.  The 
dwellers  of  the  Great  West  and  Northwest,  who  had  quite 
as  much  at  stake  in  this  struggle  for  unity,  and  who  had  as 
freely  contributed  their  blood  and  substance  to  its  defense, 
were  not  shaken  in  their  mountainous  immobility,  or  ruf 
fled  in  their  lacustrine  calm.  Perhaps  they  were  accus 
tomed  to  it  in  the  attitude  which  Puritan  New  England 
had  already  taken  towards  them. 

The  race  that  had  been  intolerant  of  Quakers  and  witches 
in  colonial  days  were  only  inclined  at  best  to  a  severe  patron 
age  or  protectorate  over  the  Gallic  mixtures  of  the  South  and 
Gulf,  with  their  horse-racing,  dueling,  and  reprehensible 
recklessness  of  expenditure ;  over  the  German  millions  of 
the  West  and  Middle  States,  slow  and  sure  in  their  thought 
ful  citizenship,  but  given  overmuch  to  wicked  enjoyment  of 
the  Sabbath ;  the  Irishman  of  the  great  seaboard  and  inland 
cities,  developing  the  conservatism  of  wealth  in  his  mature 
years,  but  perplexing  and  perturbing  in  his  youthful  immi 
gration  ;  the  Spaniards  of  the  Southwest  and  the  Pacific  Slope, 
gentle  and  dignified,  full  of  an  Old  World  courtesy  unknown 
to  the  Atlantic  States,  but  hopeless  in  their  Latin  super 
stitions  and  avowed  Papistry.  The  microcosm  of  New  Eng 
land  hardly  reflected  these  puissant  elements  of  the  greater 
world  of  the  Kepublic,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  not  always 
rightly  comprehended  them.  When  the  New  Englander 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MB.  LOWELL      263 

went  to  Kansas  it  was  with  a  sharp  rifle  and  a  dogma,  very 
much  as  his  English  ancestor  had  penetrated  the  wilderness. 
When  he  traveled  for  information  the  provincial  instinct  was 
still  strong  and  he  visited  his  capital  —  London.  His  liter 
ature  confined  itself  mainly  to  the  exploitation  of  local 
thought  and  character.  With  the  exception  of  the  Quaker 
Whittier,  few  of  the  New  England  writers  had  let  their 
observations  or  fancy  stray  beyond  its  confines.  Long 
fellow's  "  Hiawatha/7  the  Western  man  knew  only  as  a 
beautiful  legend  with  Indian  names  and  pictures  from  Cat- 
lin,  but  not  as  an  American  romance.  It  seems  strange 
that  Mr.  Lowell,  who  has  given  us  the  following  lines :  — 

"Brown  foundlin'  o*  the  woods,  whose  baby-bed 
Was  prowled  round  by  the  Injun's  cracklin'  tread, 
An'  who  grew'st  strong  thru  shifts  an'  wants  an'  pains, 
Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires  in  their  brains, 
Who  saw  in  vision  their  young  Ishmel  strain 
With  each  hard  hand  a  vassal  ocean's  mane,  — 
Thou  skilled  by  Freedom  an'  by  great  events, 
To  pitch  new  States  ez  Old- World  men  pitch  tents,"  — 

should  have  known  so  little  of  those  "New  States,"  or  that 
now  limitless  circle  before  which  the  Indian  has  retired. 
But  it  was  presumed  that  a  sufficient  idea  of  the  country  as 
an  entity  could  have  been  evolved  from  the  New  Eng- 
lander's  inner  consciousness  itself,  even  as  the  secret  of  the 
wilderness  was  supposed  to  have  been  revealed  to  the  soul 
ful  observer  of  Boston  Common.  I  remember  being  startled 
by  a  remark  of  Mr.  Emerson's  as  we  were  one  day  walking 
beside  Walden  Pond.  It  will  be  recollected  that  there  the 
gifted  Thoreau  once  reverted  to  nature,  forswore  civilization 
and  taxes,  and  became  a  savage  dweller  in  the  wilderness. 
As  I  ventured  to  comment  upon  the  singular  contiguity  of 
the  village  to  what  might  be  termed  the  fringe  of  this  track 
less  solitude,  the  "  Sage  of  Concord  "  turned  to  me  with  a 
sweet  but  peculiar  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  we  sometimes 
rang  the  dinner  bell  at  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  and  we 


264      A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.  LOWELL 

were  always  glad  when  Henry  heard  it  and  came  up." 
Kind  philosopher  and  discreet  seeker  of  nature's  primal 
truths !  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  this  facility  of  easy  re 
turn  to  the  conventional  should  ever  be  in  the  way  of  great 
divination,  hut  I  fancy  I  have  since  heard  Mr.  Emerson's 
dinner  hell  in  a  good  deal  of  New  England  literature — and 
have  felt  relieved. 

But  if  Mr.  Lowell  failed  in  a  sympathetic  understanding 
of  the  whole  nation,  who  understood  him  and  honestly 
mourn  his  loss,  he  never  erred  in  his  complete  and  keen 
perception  of  the  section  whose  virtues  and  vices  he  por 
trayed.  With  his  instincts  as  a  true  artist  he  knew  that 
his  best  material  lay  at  the  roots  of  the  people,  close  to  the 
common  soil,  and  with  his  instincts  as  a  gentleman  he 
heeded  not  the  cry  of  "vulgarity"  at  his  choice.  We  can 
not  be  sufficiently  grateful  to  him  that  he  did  not  give  us 
perfunctory,  over-cultivated,  self-conscious,  epigrammatic 
heroes  and  heroines,  as  he  might  have  done,  and  that  his 
perfect  critical  faculty  detected  their  unartistic  quality,  as 
his  honest  heart  despised  their  sham.  His  other  creative 
work  had  little  local  color,  might  have  been  written  any 
where,  and  belonged  to  the  varying  moods  of  the  accom 
plished  singer  and  thinker,  whether  told  in  the  delicate  ten 
derness  of  the  "First  Snowfall,"  of  "  Auf  Wiedersehen," 
and  "After  the  Burial,"  or  in  the  gentle  cynicism  of  "Two 
Scenes  from  the  Life  of  Blondel."  His  critical  essays  are 
so  perfect  in  their  literary  quality  that  one  forgets  that  they 
are  or  are  not  criticism. 

It  was  a  coincidence  that,  coming  as  we  did,  each  from 
the  extreme  opposite  shores  of  our  continent,  our  official  lot 
should  be  cast  together  in  this  country.  It  was  a  pleasant 
one  to  us  both.  But  I  find  myself  to-night  somehow  recall 
ing  the  first  time  I  met  him  under  his  roof-tree  at  Elmwood, 
when  he  came  forward  pleasantly  to  greet  a  countryman, 
who  I  fear,  however,  was  to  him  as  great  an  alien  in  ex- 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MR.  LOWELL      265 

perience,   methods,  and  theories  of  his  country  as  any  for 
eigner  who  had  enjoyed  his  hospitality. 

I  remember  that  near  the  house  a  gentle  river  sang  itself 
away  towards  the  sea.  In  that  continent  of  mighty  streams 
it  was  not,  perhaps,  as  characteristic  of  the  country  as  either 
of  those  great  arteries  that  lie  close  to  the  backbone  of  the 
Kepublic,  and  form  one  vast  highway  for  the  people,  for 
whose  undivided  and  equal  rights  in  it  my  friend  and  host 
lately  battled  with  all  the  grace  and  vigor  of  his  race ;  it 
was  not  as  far-reaching  as  the  larger  rivers  that  ran  east  and 
west  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  brought  prosperity  to 
either  shore.  But  it  ran  under  that  marvelous  bridge  be 
neath  whose  arches  Longfellow  saw  the  moon  sinking  like 
"  a  golden  goblet,"  and  broadened  and  mirrored  back  the 
windows  where  Holmes  still  looked  upon  it  and  sang  to  it 
his  sweetest  songs.  And  the  little  "  Charles  "  never  bore 
more  precious  freight  upon  its  bosom  than  when  the  last 
leaves  of  that  transplanted  English  oak,  which  had  grown 
up  so  sturdily  among  the  elms  of  Elmwood,  drifted  out 
that  August  morning  towards  "the  old  home." 


MY  FAVOKITE  NOVELIST  AND  HIS  BEST  BOOK 

As  I  have  half  a  dozen  favorite  novelists,  but  only  one 
favorite  novel,  I  find  some  difficulty  in  adjusting  this  article 
to  the  limits  defined  in  the  above  somewhat  arbitrary  title. 
And  as  it  may  be  doubtful,  also,  if  the  critical  dissection  and 
analysis  of  any  novel  is  compatible  with  that  deep  affection  sug 
gested  by  the  word  "favorite/'  I  hasten  to  confess  that  my 
critical  appreciation  of  my  favorite  novel  began  long  after 
it  had  first  thrilled  me  as  a  story. 

And  here,  I  fear  I  must  start  with  the  premises  —  open 
to  some  contention — that  the  primary  function  of  the  novel 
is  to  interest  the  reader  in  its  story — in  the  progress  of 
some  well-developed  plot  to  a  well-defined  climax,  which 
may  be  either  expected  or  unexpected  by  him.  After  this 
it  may  have  a  purpose  or  moral ,  may  be  pathetic,  humorous, 
or  felicitous  in  language  ;  but  it  must  first  interest  as  a  story. 

The  average  novel  reader  is  still  a  child  in  the  desires  of 
the  imagination;  he  wants  to  know  what  "happened,"  and 
to  what  end.  It  may  be  doubted  if  the  humor  of  Dickens, 
the  satire  of  Thackeray,  or  the  epigrammatic  brilliancy  of 
the  French  school,  ever  dazzled  or  diverted  his  mind  from 
that  requisite.  "  Did  the  lovers  marry  ? "  "  Was  the 
murderer  discovered  ?  "  "  Was  the  mystery  explained  ?  " 
are  the  eternal  questions  for  which  he  demands  an  answer. 
The  skill  that  prolongs  this  suspense,  the  art  that  protracts 
this  denouement  without  his  perceiving  it,  he  does  not  object 
to.  Any  one  who  has  watched  him  eagerly  or  impatiently 
skipping  page  after  page,  and  covertly  peeping  at  the  last 
one  of  a  new  novel,  will  understand  this.  We  laugh  at, 
but  we  must  not  underrate,  the  power  of  the  weekly  install- 


MY  FAVORITE   NOVELIST  AND   HIS  BEST   BOOK      267 

ment  of  cheap  fiction  which  leaves  the  hero  hanging  over  a 
precipice  in  the  last  issue,  and  only  rescues  him  on  the  fol 
lowing  Saturday.  It  may  be  a  cheap  "surprise,"  but  the 
humble  "  penny-a-liner  "  may  be  nearer  to  the  needs  of  the 
average  reader  than  the  more  celebrated  author. 

A  charming  American  writer,  in  an  extravaganza  called 
"The  Brick  Moon,"  makes  the  solitary  inhabitant  of  that 
whirling  disk,  cast  into  space,  telegraph  to  his  fair  Dulcinea 
still  on  the  earth.  It  was  at  the  time  when  Charles  Readers 
exciting  novel,  "Foul  Play,"  was  in  serial  publication. 
The  first  question  asked  by  the  celestial  voyager  referred  to 
this  mundane  romance,  which  they  both  were  reading  at 
the  time  of  their  separation. 

"  How  did  they  get  off  the  Island  ? "  the  anxious  in 
quirer  traces  on  his  gigantic  sphere. 

"Ducks,"  flashed  back  the  brief  but  sympathetic  girl, 
with  one  eye  at  the  telescope,  and  the  other  on  the 
book. 

The  average  reader  will  at  least  respond  to  the  feeling 
that  suggested  so  extreme  an  illustration.  We,  who  write, 
may  possibly  object.  We  may  wish  him  to  admire  our 
poetry,  our  humor,  and  our  "  profound  knowledge  of  human 
nature  "  —  vide  our  most  intelligent  critic ;  he  will,  in  the 
exercise  of  that  human  nature,  simply  observe  that  he  is 
getting  "no  forwarder" — and  will  have  none  of  them. 
We  may  wish  him  to  know  of  what  our  hero  is  thinking  — 
he  only  cares  for  what  he  is  doing;  we  may  —  more  fatal 
error  !  —  wish  him  to  know  of  what  we  are  thinking  —  and 
he  calmly  skips !  We  may  scatter  the  flowers  of  our  fancy 
in  his  way ;  like  the  old  fox  hunter  in  the  story,  he  only 
hates  "them  stinkin'  vi'lets"  that  lead  him  off  the  scent 
we  have  started.  Action !  Movement !  He  only  seeks 
these,  until  the  climax  is  "  run  down." 

I  am  premising,  of  course,  that  this  action  shall  be  con 
tinuously  and  ably  sustained.  The  subject  may  be  various, 


268      MY  FAVORITE  NOVELIST  AND  HIS  BEST   BOOK 

but  I  think  it  will  be  admitted  that  its  most  popular  form 
is  always  based  upon  the  prolonged  struggle  of  man  with 
his  particular  environment  and  circumstance.  It  was  an 
old  trick  of  the  Greek,  but  the  gods  of  his  drama  were  im 
placable  ;  the  hero  succumbed,  and  so  we  will  have  no  more 
of  him.  In  its  simplest  form,  it  was  that  direct  struggle 
with  the  forces  of  nature  which  has  made  "  Robinson 
Crusoe  "  immortal.  This  has  been  combined,  later,  with 
our  hero's  additional  struggle  with  a  preengaged  and  unre- 
ciprocating  mistress,  as  in  "  Foul  Play  "  ;  although  here  is 
the  danger  of  a  double  action,  only  one  element  of  which 
the  reader  will  follow.  It  may  run  the  whole  gamut  of 
the  affections,  although  the  younger  novelists  —  like  Stan 
ley  Weyman  —  are  beginning  to  recognize  the  effect  of  a 
lover  who  has  to  overcome  a  preliminary  aversion  on  the 
part  of  his  beloved  in  addition  to  his  other  struggles. 

For  the  more  hopeless  the  preliminary  situation,  and  the 
greater  the  obstacles  to  the  action,  the  greater  the  interest. 
The  highest  form  of  art  is  reached  when  the  hero's  difficul 
ties  are  such  that  apparently  nothing  short  of  divine  inter 
position  would  seem  to  save  him,  and  his  triumph  is  conse 
quently  exalted  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  to  seem  to 
partake  of  divine  retribution.  It  is  especially  reached  in  a 
novel  dealing  with  what  might  be  called  personal  revenge  — 
yet  a  revenge  for  wrongs  so  inhuman,  and  a  revenge  carried 
out  under  such  masterful  intelligence  and  direction,  as  to 
seem  divine  justice. 

And  this  is  what  I  claim  for  my  favorite  novel :  "  The 
Count  of  Monte  Cristo,"  by  the  elder  Dumas.  The  lovers 
of  that  great  French  romancer  will  perhaps  wonder  why  I 
hesitated  at  the  outset  to  speak  of  him  as  my  "favorite 
novelist"  ;  they  will  perhaps  remind  me  of  his  other  books, 
and  of  those  delightful  creatures,  Athos,  Porthos,  Aramis, 
and  D'Artagnan;  but  I  must  in  turn  remind  them  that 
these  are  only  characters  in  a  charming  series  of  historical 


MY  FAVORITE   NOVELIST  AND  HIS   BEST  BOOK      269 

episodes ;  and  I  prefer  to  restrict  my  claim  to  his  one  excep 
tional  performance  —  a  perfect  novel ! 

I  suppose  there  is  scarcely  a  reader  of  these  pages  who, 
whether  he  accepts  this  dictum  or  not,  is  not  familiar 
with  the  story,  and  will  not  admit  its  whilom  extraordinary 
popularity.  "  The  wealth  of  Monte  Cristo  "  is  already  as 
proverbial  as  that  of  Croesus.  Yet  I  venture  to  briefly  re 
capitulate  the  outline  of  this  story.  A  young  man  of  obscure 
origin  is,  by  a  malicious  conspiracy,  unexpectedly  deprived 
of  his  betrothed,  his  ambition,  and  his  liberty,  and  con 
fined  in  a  political  prison,  where  he  is  supposed  by  every 
one  but  the  reader  to  have  miserably  died.  At  the  end  of 
fourteen  years  he  reappears,  equipped  with  extraordinary 
yet  possible  power  of  vengeance,  and  mysteriously  pursues 
his  former  persecutors  to  the  bitter  end. 

It  is  a  plot  simple  enough,  as  all  great  works  are;  but 
before  entering  upon  its  marvelous  exposition,  I  would  like 
to  call  the  reader's  attention  to  that  shrewd  perception  of 
human  nature  which  made  the  great  romancer  select  a  very 
common  instinct  of  humanity  as  the  basis  of  his  appeal  to 
the  reader's  sympathy.  We  have  all  of  us,  at  some  time, 
when  confronted  with  a  particular  phase  of  human  wrong 
and  injustice,  been  seized  by  a  desire  to  usurp  the  tardy  di 
vine  function,  and  take  the  law  into  our  own  hands.  We 
have  all  wished  to  be  "  caliph  for  a  day,"  as  humanly,  if 
not  as  humbly,  as  the  Persian  porter ;  we  have  longed  for 
a  sudden  and  potential  elevation  from  which  to  hold  the 
balance  between  man  and  man.  Such  a  being  Dumas  has 
created  in  Edmond  Dantes,  later  Count  of  Monte  Cristo, 
and  with  such  convincing  and  elaborate  skill  that  we  for 
get  he  is  only  redressing  his  own  wrongs  in  the  tact,  wis 
dom,  and  scope  of  his  scheme  of  retribution.  We  overlook 
the  relentlessness  of  his  punitive  powers  in  the  impassive 
logic  with  which  he  makes  the  guilty  work  out  their  own 
doom. 


270   MY  FAVORITE  NOVELIST  AND  HIS  BEST  BOOK 

I  do  not  know  of  a  situation  in  romance  more  artistically 
explicated  than  the  opening  chapters  of  "Monte  Cristo," 
from  the  arrival  of  Edmond  Dantes  at  Marseilles  to  his  in 
carceration  in  the  Chateau  d'If.  There  is  nothing  forced, 
extravagant,  or  unnatural  in  the  exposition,  yet  it  contains 
everything  essential  to  the  working-out  of  the  plot  in  the 
remaining  three  fourths  of  the  novel,  all  carefully  pre 
arranged  —  even  to  the  apparently  unimportant  and  humble 
vocation  of  the  hero,  as  will  be  seen  later.  We  have  the 
good  ship  Pharaon  entering  the  harbor,  anxiously  expected 
by  the  worthy  owner  Morrel,  —  a  man  whose  generosity 
and  extravagant  sense  of  mercantile  honor  leads  him  even 
tually  into  financial  straits,  —  and  temporarily  commanded 
by  her  first  mate,  D^antes,  owing  to  the  death,  at  sea,  of 
her  captain.  We  are  at  once  introduced  to  the  important 
characters  of  the  book :  Danglars,  the  supercargo,  jealous  of 
Dantes's  position;  Fernand,  Dantes's  unsuccessful  rival  for 
Mercedes's  hand;  Caderousse,  the  weak,  drunken,  vacillating 
friend  of  Dantes  —  a  strongly  drawn  character ;  and  the 
royalist  magistrate,  De  Villefort,  ambitious  of  promotion. 
We  have  for  an  epoch  the  coming  shadow  of  the  Hundred 
Days  cast  upon  the  Pharaon,  for  she  also  bears  a  letter  from 
the  Emperor  at  Elba  to  Noirtier,  the  Bonapartist  uncle  of 
De  Villefort,  which  the  innocent  Dantes  has  received  as  a 
sacred  trust  from  the  dying  captain.  It  is  this  letter, 
which  would  prove  Dantes's  innocence,  yet,  by  compromis 
ing  De  Villefort 's  uncle,  would  ruin  De  Villefort 's  own 
political  advancement,  that  the  magistrate  suppresses. 

And  here  it  will  be  seen  that  the  conspiracy  on  which 
so  much  depends,  and  upon  which  such  tremendous  punish 
ment  is  afterwards  invoked,  is  no  mere  cheap  stage  villainy. 
The  conspirators  are  human,  and  at  this  crisis — as  in  real 
life  —  are  moved  only  through  their  respective  weaknesses ; 
Danglars  by  envy,  Fernand  by  jealousy,  Caderousse  through 
drunken  impotence.  All  believe  in  a  certain  legal  guilt  of 


MY  FAVORITE  NOVELIST  AND  HIS  BEST  BOOK  271 

Dantes —  except  De  Villefort  —  and  none  but  he  is  aware 
that  he  is  dooming  the  unfortunate  sailor  to  more  than  a 
few  months'  imprisonment.  Even  De  Villefort 's  cruel  pro 
longation  of  his  incarceration  arises  from  the  increasing 
danger  of  discovery  to  himself,  in  his  rising  fortunes.  This 
combination  has,  therefore,  nothing  extravagant,  inhuman, 
or  unconvincing  in  its  details.  The  conspiracy  is  success 
ful,  and  the  doors  of  the  Chateau  d'lf  close  on  the  un 
fortunate  man,  and  on  the  first  act  of  the  drama. 

If,  for  a  French  novel,  the  love  passages  of  Mercedes 
and  Dantes  seem  somewhat  brief  and  artificial,  —  especially 
when  contrasted  with  the  charming  idyll  of  Maximilien 
Morrel  and  Valentine  de  Villefort  in  the  later  pages,  —  it 
is  no  doubt  a  part  of  the  art  of  Dumas.  He  did  not  wish 
the  reader  to  dwell  too  much  upon  it,  nor  to  excite  too 
much  sympathy  with  Mercedes  —  who  is  destined,  later,  to 
take  up  with  Dantes's  rival.  Dantes  is  always  the  central 
figure  —  not  Dantes,  a  languishing  lover,  but  Dantes,  the 
victim  of  fate  and  selfish  cruelty,  the  predestined  self- 
avenger. 

We  now  come  to  the  second  act  of  this  drama;  which  is 
still  explicatory  and  preparatory,  yet  which  exhibits  in  a 
still  higher  degree  the  genius  of  the  constructor.  We  have 
the  hero  with  a  tremendous  purpose  before  him  —  but 
powerless,  inexperienced,  and  untried.  More  than  this,  he 
is  a  common,  uncultured  man,  while  his  persecutors  are  al 
ready  advancing  to  fortune  and  position.  It  would  be  easy 
for  the  ordinary  romancer  to  break  prison  walls,  and  let  the 
convict  revenge  himself  in  a  rude,  sailor-like  fashion.  But 
Dumas  is  no  ordinary  romancer ;  he  makes  the  fourteen 
years  of  Dantes's  captivity  essential  to  his  salavation,  and 
the  actual  equipment  and  education  of  the  hero  for  his  pur 
pose.  The  whole  thrilling  narrative  of  Dantes's  prison 
life,  the  despair  verging  upon  suicide,  the  attempt  to  escape, 
seemingly  futile,  yet  leading  to  his  strange  acquaintance 


272      MY  FAVORITE   NOVELIST   AND   HIS  BEST   BOOK 

and  intimacy  with  the  Abbe  Faria,  are  not  the  mere  ingen 
ious  incidents  of  a  clever  romancer,  but  the  gradual  build 
ing-up  of  Dantes's  character,  intellect,  judgment,  and  even 
knowledge  of  the  world,  to  enable  him  to  fulfill  his  purpose. 
Restricted  to  the  companionship  of  a  learned  and  polished 
ecclesiastic,  for  whom  he  feels  the  devotion  of  a  simple  na 
ture,  he  becomes  polished  and  refined.  Condemned  to  idle 
ness,  he  becomes  a  student.  He  is  nq  longer  the  frank, 
simple  sailor,  but  the  man  of  education,  meditation,  and 
self-control.  Out  of  his  very  wrongs  and  sufferings  the 
redresser  of  these  wrongs  and  sufferings  has  been  created. 

He  lacks  now  only  freedom  and  fortune  to  begin  his 
work.  By  fortuitous  but  yet  not  improbable  circumstances, 
both  are  brought  within  his  reach.  A  dangerous  attack  of 
illness  compels  the  Abbe'  to  reveal  the  treasure  of  Monte 
Cristo  to  his  companion.  His  sudden  death  not  only  makes 
Dantes  the  heir  to  this  colossal  fortune,  but  gives  him  the 
opportunity  to  escape.  Even  here,  however,  Dumas's  art 
is  shown  in  the  element  of  suspense  kept  up  and  the  dra 
matic  surprise  of  the  climax.  The  hero  and  the  reader 
both  believe  that  by  Dantes's  substitution  of  his  own  living 
body  for  that  of  his  dead  companion  in  the  coarse  funeral 
sack  to  be  conveyed  outside  the  prison  walls,  he  will  be 
able  to  dig  himself  from  the  careless,  shallow  grave  accorded 
a  forgotten  prisoner.  The  moment  arrives ;  Dantes  feels  the 
cool  breath  of  freedom,  as  he  is  wheeled  in  the  sack  beyond 
the  prison  pale;  but  he  suddenly  feels  also  that  he  is  lifted 
up  and  swung  in  midair !  One  does  not  talk  much  of  Du 
mas's  epigrammatic  force  of  description,  but  nothing  can  be 
finer  than  the  last  line  of  the  chapter  —  which  tells  the 
whole  story.  "  La  mer  est  le  cimetiere  du  Chateau  $If" 
says  the  French  romancer.  "The  sea  is  the  cemetery  of 
the  Chateau  d'lf,"  says  the  literal  English  translator. 

The  reader  understands,  now,  why  the  hero  has  been 
bred  a  sailor.  The  plunge  into  the  sea,  the  desperate  swim 


MY  FAVORITE   NOVELIST  AND   HIS   BEST   BOOK      273 

for  life,  the  boarding  of  the  Genoese  vessel,  the  enlistment 
among  the  crew,  and  the  finding  of  the  island  of  Monte 
Cristo,  could  only  have  been  accomplished  by  a  thorough 
seaman — and  all  this  was  preordained  by  the  ingenuity  of 
the  author.  This  is  equally  true  of  the  management  of  the 
yacht  in  the  removal  of  the  treasures  from  the  Island.  It 
is  well,  also,  to  note,  as  another  instance  of  this  ingenious 
prearrangement  of.  detail,  that  Dantes's  first  successful  dis 
guise  in  his  interview  with  his  old  companion,  Caderousse, 
is  that  of  an  abbe  —  which  his  intimacy  with  Faria  alone 
made  probable. 

The  fairy  splendors  of  the  Grotto,  and  the  entertainment 
of  Franz  d'Epinay,  which  announce  Dantes's  assumption  of 
the  title  of  Count  of  Monte  Cristo,  may  seem  somewhat  ex 
travagant  to  the  reader  of  English  romance,  but  they  arise 
from  that  southern  exuberance  of  color  which  characterized 
Dumas' s  fancy.  It  must  be  remembered  that  Monte  Cristo's 
apparent  ostentation  of  wealth  was  assumed  for  the  purpose 
of  impressing  his  destined  victims,  and  carrying  out  his 
vengeance.  One  does  not  expect  the  millionaire  Monte 
Cristo,  with  his  mission,  to  act  with  the  reticence  and  calm 
of  a  Eothschild  ;  and  the  English  reader  may,  after  all,  find 
less  to  offend  his  taste  in  the  conscious  posing  of  this  French 
avenger  than  in  the  unconscious  vulgarity  of  a  Lothair. 
Yet  it  is  perhaps  unfortunate  for  the  reputation  of  the  novel 
that  much  of  its  Roman  carnival  display  has  become  already 
familiar  as  a  cheap  stage  spectacle  to  the  exclusion  of  its 
real  dramatic  power. 

I  find  only  one  incident  in  this  part  of  the  novel  which 
strikes  me  as  being  inconsistent  with  its  general  careful 
elaboration  and  plausibility.  It  is  the  mysterious  rehabili 
tation  of  the  lost  ship  Pharaon,  and  her  dramatic  entry  into 
Marseilles  on  the  eve  of  Morrel's  bankruptcy.  It  is  an 
anticlimax,  for  Morrel  has  already  been  saved  by  the  myste 
rious  Englishman,  and  the  catastrophe  averted;  it  is  a  mere 


274      MY  FAVORITE   NOVELIST  AND   HIS   BEST  BOOK 

coup  de  theatre,  on  which  the  curtain  of  the  chapter  de 
scends  without  explanation.  It  is  so  unlike  the  author  that 
one  is  inclined  to  believe  it  the  work  of  Maquet,  Dumas's 
collaborator  in  his  other  novels. 

The  episode  of  Luigi  Vampa  and  his  brigands  is  merely 
an  entr'acte  of  adventure  to  bring  closer  the  relation  of 
Monte  Cristo  to  Albert  de  Morcerf,  the  son  of  Fernand,  and 
to  prepare  the  way  for  Monte  Cristo' s  entrance  into  Paris, 
and  his  work  of  retribution.  Here,  almost  at  once,  we  have 
the  tremendously  dramatic  episode  of  the  Auberge  of  Pont 
du  Garde  told  by  Bertuccio,  Monte  Cristo's  servant,  in 
which  the  diamond  ring  given  by  Monte  Cristo  (disguised 
as  an  abbe,  and  the  executor  of  the  dead  Edmond  Dantes) 
to  Caderousse  and  his  wife  has  provoked  the  murder  of  the 
jeweler  and  the  death  of  the  wife.  The  details  of  the  mur 
der,  witnessed  by  Bertuccio,  himself  in  hiding ;  the  "  rain 
of  blood  "  falling  through  the  cracks  of  the  floor  above  upon 
the  concealed  man,  and  his  own  arrest  for  the  murder, 
would  be  thrilling  enough  as  an  episode,  but  it  is  more  artisti 
cally  significant  as  the  beginning  of  that  retribution  worked 
out  upon  the  old  conspirators,  through  their  own  weaknesses, 
by  the  invisible  hand  of  the  Count.  The  discovery  of  the 
old  intrigue  of  Mme.  Danglars  and  De  Villefort  at  Auteuil, 
and  the  birth  of  the  child,  is  equally  powerful  as  an  episode ; 
the  Lucrezia  Borgia  habits  of  Mme.  de  Villefort,  and  the 
thwarting  of  her  designs  on  the  paralytic  Noirtier  by  the  fact 
that  the  powerful  poisons  she  employs  are,  unknown  to  her, 
the  same  medicines  given  to  him  for  his  malady,  and  are 
therefore  harmless  to  him ;  the  luring  of  the  financier  Dan 
glars  to  his  ruin,  through  his  ambition,  by  Monte  Cristo,  are 
thrilling  incidents  enough,  but  are  one  and  all  subservient 
to  the  dominant  idea  of  the  novel  —  that  the  guilty  should 
assist  in  their  own  punishment. 

Yet  one  of  the  finest  touches  in  the  story  is  Monte  Cristo' s 
final  recognition  that,  with  all  his  tremendous  power,  and 


MY  FAVORITE  NOVELIST  AND  HIS  BEST  BOOK      275 

logical  and  impassive  as  is  his  scheme  of  retribution  he  has 
not  for  one  moment  succeeded  in  displacing  God !  And, 
despite  its  southern  extravagance,  its  theatrical  postures  and 
climaxes,  its  opulence  of  incident,  —  almost  as  bewildering 
as  the  wealth  of  its  hero,  —  as  a  magnificent  conception  of 
romance  magnificently  carried  out,  the  novel  seems  to  me  to 
stand  unsurpassed  in  literature. 

But  "  Monte  Cristo  "  is  romance,  and,  as  I  am  told,  of 
a  very  antiquated  type.  I  am  informed  by  writers  (not 
readers)  that  this  is  all  wrong ;  that  the  world  wants  to 
know  itself  in  all  its  sordid,  material  aspects,  relieved  only 
by  occasional  excursions  into  the  domain  of  pathology  and 
the  contemplation  of  diseased  and  morbid  types;  that  "the 
proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  "  as  he  is,  and  not  as  he 
might  be ;  and  that  it  is  very  reprehensible  to  deceive  him 
with  fairy-tales,  or  to  satisfy  a  longing  that  was  in  him  when 
the  first  bard  sang  to  him,  or,  in  the  gloom  of  his  cave 
dwelling,  when  the  first  story-teller  interested  him  in  ac 
counts  of  improbable  beasts  and  men  —  with  illustrations  on 
bone.  But  I  venture  to  believe  that  when  Jones  comes 
home  from  the  city  and  takes  up  a  book,  he  does  not  greatly 
care  to  read  a  faithful  chronicle  of  his  own  doings;  nor  has 
Mrs.  Jones  freshened  herself  for  his  coming  by  seeking  a 
transcript  of  her  own  uneventful  day  in  the  pages  of  her 
favorite  novel.  But  if  they  have  been  lifted  temporarily 
out  of  their  commonplace  surroundings  and  limited  horizon 
by  some  specious  tale  of  heroism,  endeavor,  wrongs  re 
dressed,  and  faith  rewarded,  and  are  inclined  to  look  a  little 
more  hopefully  to  Jones's  chances  of  promotion,  or  to 
Mrs.  Jones's  aunt's  prospective  legacy  —  why  blame  them 
or  their  novelist? 


EARLY  POEMS 

1857-1865 


THE  VALENTINE1 

(Bret  Harte's  first  known  poem) 

'T  WAS  St.  Valentine's  day,  and  he  mused  in  his  chair, 
His  feet  on  the  fender  —  but  his  heart  was  not  there  ; 

Thoughts  of  sweet  Angelina,  of  all  girls  the  best, 

Fill'd  his  mind's  waking  dreams,  and  a  sigh  fill'd  his  breast. 

What   sound   breaks   the    silence  ?  —  the   doorbell's    loud 

jingle  — 
The  blood  leaves  his  heart,  his  cheeks  also  tingle. 

He  rushed  through  the  doorway,  he  jumps  down  the  stair, 
He  opens  the  door,  and  the  postman  is  there. 

His  ways  are  not  pleasant  —  his  words  are  but  few ; 

"  Mr.  Jones  ?  "  "  So  I  am  !  "  "  Here 's  a  letter  for  you." 

He  seized  the  loved  missive,  and  straightway  he  fled, 
With  his  lips  all  the  way  pressed  to  Washington's  head. 

"Oh,  my  fond  Angelina! — dear  girl !  "  thus  he  cried; 
"  'T  is  from  thee,  my  own  darling,  and  maybe  —  my  bride. 

"  Bashful  girl !  did'st  thou  think  thy  sweet  hand  to  disguise 
That  no  sign  might  reveal,  and  thy  lover  surprise  ? 

"  But  love  —  fancy  painter  —  more  signs  doth  espy 
Than  the  casual  observer  would  idly  pass  by." 

1  Golden  Era,  March  1,  1857. 


280  LINES   WRITTEN   IN   A   PRAYER-BOOK 

Thus  spake  he,  then  tore  off  the  envious  seal, 
And  impatiently  read.     What  its  contents  reveal  ? 

"  Dear  Sir : — The  amount  that  stands  charged  to  your 

name, 
You  'd  oblige  us  by  calling  and  settling  the  same  !  " 


LINES  WRITTEN   IN  A  PKAYEB-BOOK1 

THE  last  long  knell  of  the  tolling  bell 

Dies  out  of  the  belfry's  pile, 
And  the  rustling  skirt  and  the  crinoline's  swell 

Is  gone  from  the  echoing  aisle, 
And  on  saint  and  on  sinner  a  silence  fell, 

Unbroken  by  whisper  or  smile. 

I  cannot  pray,  for  my  thoughts  still  stray 
From  my  book,  though  I  seem  to  con  it; 

She  's  not  over  there  'midst  beauty's  array, 
For  I  know  the  style  of  her  bonnet, 

Just  from  Madame  Chassez's,  with  its  trimming  no  gay  ; 
And  the  loveliest  roses  upon  it. 

She  comes !  "  She  is  like  to  the  merchant  ships," 
For  she  bringeth  her  silks  "  from  afar  " ; 

She  comes !  She  is  here !  and  my  heart 's  at  my  lips, 
And  my  nerves,  how  they  tremble  and  jar  ! 

For  the  flounces  that  catch  in  the  pews  and  the  slips, 
Her  way  to  salvation  doth  bar. 

Oh,  let  not  your  judgment,  ye  saints,  be  severe, 
Impute  not  the  fault  to  her  pride, 

1  Golden  Era,  March  22,  1857. 


LOVE  AND  PHYSIC  281 

For  when  angels  awhile  on  the  earth  reappear, 

Their  limits  are  not  circumscribed ; 
And  when  woman  extendeth  the  bounds  of  her  sphere, 

Her  influence  can't  be  too  wide ! 


LOVE  AND  PHYSIC1 

A  CLEVER  man  was  Dr.  Digg ; 

Misfortunes  well  he  bore ; 
He  never  lost  his  patience  till 

He  had  no  patients  more ; 
And  though  his  practice  once  was  large, 

It  did  not  swell  his  gains ; 
The  pains  he  labored  for  were  but 

The  labor  for  his  pains. 

The  "  art  is  long,"  his  cash  got  short, 

And  well  might  Galen  dread  it, 
For  who  will  trust  a  name  unknown 

When  merit  gets  no  credit  ? 
To  marry  seemed  the  only  way 

To  ease  his  mind  of  trouble ; 
Misfortunes  never  singly  come, 

And  misery  made  him  double. 

He  had  a  patient,  rich  and  fair, 

That  hearts  by  scores  was  breaking, 
And  as  he  once  had  felt  her  wrist, 

He  thought  her  hand  of  taking  • 
But  what  the  law  makes  strangers  do, 

Did  strike  his  comprehension  ; 
Who  live  in  these  United  States, 

Do  first  declare  intention. 

1  Golden  Era,  April  12,  1857. 


282  LOVE   AND   PHYSIC 

And  so  he  called.     His  beating  heart 

With  anxious  fears  was  swelling, 
And  half  in  habit  took  her  hand 

And  on  her  tongue  was  dwelling; 
But  thrice  tho'  he  essayed  to  speak, 

He  stopp'd,  and  stuck,  and  blundered ; 
For  say,  what  mortal  could  be  cool 

Whose  pulse  was  most  a  hundred  ? 

"  Madam,"  at  last  he  faltered  out,  — 

His  love  had  grown  courageous,  — 
"  I  have  discerned  a  new  complaint, 

I  hope  to  prove  contagious ; 
And  when  the  symptoms  I  relate, 

And  show  its  diagnosis, 
Ah,  let  me  hope  from  those  dear  lips, 
Some  favorable  prognosis. 

"  This  done,"  he  cries,  "  let 's  tie  those  ties 

Which  none  but  death  can  sever  ; 
Since  '  like  cures  like/  I  do  infer 

That  love  cures  love,  forever." 
He  paused  —  she  blushed  ;  however  strange 

It  seems  on  first  perusal, 
Altho'  there  was  no  promise  made, 

She  gave  him  a  refusal. 

Says  she,  "If  well  I  understand 

The  sentiments  you  're  saying, 
You  do  propose  to  take  a  hand  — 

A  game  that  two  are  playing — 
At  whist ;  one's  partner  ought  to  be 

As  silent  as  a  mummy, 
But  in  the  game  of  love,  I  think, 

I  shall  not  take  a  dummy. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   OF  YOUTH  283 

"  I  cannot  marry  one  who  lives 

By  other  folks'  distresses  ; 
The  man  I  marry,  I  must  love, 

Nor  fear  his  fond  caresses ; 
For  who,  whatever  be  their  sex, 

However  strange  the  case  is, 
Would  like  to  have  a  doctor's  bill 

Stuck  up  into  their  faces  ?  " 

Perhaps  you  think,  'twixt  love  and  rage, 

He  took  some  deadly  potion, 
Or  with  his  lancet  breathed  a  vein 

To  ease  his  pulse's  motion. 
To  guess  the  vent  of  his  despair, 

The  wisest  one  might  miss  it ; 
He  reached  his  office  —  then  and  there 

He  charged  her  for  the  visit ! 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH1 

(After  Longfellow) 
STARING  sunlight  on  the  lawn, 

Chequered  shadows  in  the  wood; 
Summer's  odors,  idly  borne, 

Linger  by  the  trickling  flood. 

Lingering,  waiting,  long  delayed, 

Till  the  pure  and  limpid  pool 
Mirrors,  with  night's  coming  shade, 

Childhood  tripping  home  from  school. 

Tripping  down  the  well-worn  track, 

Zephyrs  greet  the  coming  girl, 
Press  the  little  bonnet  back, 

Nestle  in  the  dewy  curl. 

l  Golden  Era,  April  26,  1857. 


284  THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   YOUTH 

Robins  twittering  thro*  the  leaves, 
Chirping  wren  and  chattering  jay 

Carol  'neath  the  verdant  eaves  ; 
Carols  she  as  sweet  as  they. 

Satchel  swinging  on  her  arm, 

On  her  cheek  health's  glowing  flush, 

Stands,  in  all  of  girlhood's  charms, 
Youth  beside  the  alder-bush. 

Summers  nine  had  o'er  her  fled, 
Left  their  violets  in  her  eyes, 

On  her  cheeks  their  roses  spread, 
On  her  lips  their  balmy  sighs. 

On  the  grass  her  bonnet  lies, 
On  the  grass  her  satchel  flung; 

Who  its  secrets  may  surmise? 
Rosy  fingers  grope  among 

Remnants  of  her  dinner  there  — 
Dinner  past,  but  not  forgot ; 

Dimpled  hand  with  tender  care 
Draws  the  bread  and  butter  out. 

White  and  bare  that  arm  and  hand, 
And  beneath  the  rippling  stream, 

Like  two  pebbles  on  the  strand, 
White  the  little  ankles  gleam. 

Leaning  o'er  the  waters  clear, 
Looking  in  the  limpid  spring 

Sees  she  there  her  cheeks  appear  — 
Sees  her  blue  eyes  glistening  ? 


THE  FOUNTAIN   OF  YOUTH  285 

Crimson  clouds  and  skies  of  blue, 

Morn  and  eve  had  mirror' d  there ; 
But  those  eyes  and  cheeks  to  view 

With  their  tints,  might  well  compare. 

Breathless  lie  her  lips  apart, 

Motionless  her  arms  incline, 
Wildly  beats  that  little  heart  — 

Ah !  the  child  was  feminine. 

Yes,  the  curse  of  Eve  the  mother  — 

Woman's  vanity  —  the  spell 
On  her  falls,  and  eke  another, 

Down  the  bread  and  butter  fell. 

On  the  waters  had  she  cast  it : 

By  and  by  it  might  be  found. 
Foolish  hand  forgot  to  clasp  it  — 

Let  it  fall  upon  the  ground. 

Such  is  fate ;  and  though  we  mutter, 
Why  and  wherefore?  none  decide. 

Ever  falls  one's  bread  and  butter, 
Always  on  the  buttered  side  ? 

With  her  sorrows  let  us  leave  her — 

Great  her  fault,  let  justice  own  ; 
Great  her  punishment  —  nor  grieve  her 

With  the  chastening  to  come. 

Learning  well  this  moral  lesson: 

Though  our  visions  still  are  fair, 
Humblest  things  in  our  possession 

Greater  than  illusions  are. 


286  THE  STUDENT'S  DREAM 

THE   STUDENT'S  DKEAM1 
"KNOWLEDGE  is  POWER" 

A  STUDENT  sat  in  his  easy-chair; 

Around  him  many  a  ponderous  tome 
Of  antiquarian  lore  was  there, 

And  the  classic  wealth  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
The  light  that  swings  'twixt  the  oaken  beams, 
Around  and  about  him  fitfully  gleams 

In  a  pale  prophetic  shower; 
And  the  line  on  which  he  ponders  and  dreams, 

Is  written  —  "  Knowledge  is  Power." 

He  dreams  —  his  vision  expansive  grows, 
And  on  either  side  the  wall  recedes, 

And  from  out  that  misty  chaos  rose 
A  pile  of  mortgages,  bonds,  and  deeds, 

And  gold  in  glittering  columns  heaped. 
A  nation's  debt  might  be  reclaimed, 
A  nation's  honor  be  sustained, 

Or  countries  might  in  blood  be  steeped 

At  the  pen-and-ink  stroke  of  this  mighty  lord 
Of  Mammon,  who  sat  by  his  treasured  hoard. 

But  the  vision  fled  as  he  raised  his  head ; 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  muttering,  said: 
"  Kiches  will  change  —  they  flee  in  an  hour ; 
To  know,  is  eternal  —  '  Knowledge  is  Power.' '! 

He  bow'd  his  head  in  his  book  again, 
And  sighed,  but  it  was  not  a  sigh  of  pain. 
Was  it  an  echo  that,  lingering  nigh, 
Caught  and  repeated  that  long-drawn  sigh  ? 
i  Golden  Era,  June  7,  1857. 


THE  STUDENT'S  DREAM  287 

Or  was  it  the  lady  sitting  by  ? 

Oh,  she  was  fair !  —  her  presence  there 

Suddenly,  sweetly  filled  the  air 

Like  the  scent  of  some  opening  flower  rare, 

And  Heaven  was  in  her  eye ; 
Or  such  a  glimpse  as  might  have  slid 
From  under  the  tenderly  guarded  lid, 

Had  none  been  there  to  spy. 
In  the  lap  of  her  satin  robe,  she  bore 
Of  gems  and  jewels  a  precious  store, 
For  all  that  lavish  wealth  might  spare, 
At  beauty's  shrine  but  offerings  were. 

But  the  vision  fled  as  he  raised  his  head ; 
He  watched  her  departing,  and  sighing,  said : 
"Beauty  is  bought  —  it  fades  like  a  flower; 
Who  can  buy  knowledge  ?  —  '  Knowledge  is  Power.' ': 

In  a  robe  antique,  and  of  mien  profound, 

Came  a  well-known  face  his  own  to  greet, 
And  he  knew  the  pale  brow  that  the  laurel  bound 

Was  the  sacred  symbol  of  knowledge  meet. 
In  her  eyes  the  ray  of  a  soul  divine 
Glowed  like  a  gem  in  the  pale  moonshine 

With  a  radiance  constant,  quiet,  and  sweet. 
Her  stature  was  slight,  majestic  and  tall, 
Yet  proudly  erect  she  towered,  withal, 
To  homage  used,  for  she  knew  that  all 

The  world  was  at  her  feet ; 
Yet  a  silence  kept  as  the  student  slept, 
And  nearer  she  drew ;  by  his  side  she  stept ; 
She  spoke,  and  as  clear  her  accents  rung 
As  a  silver  bell  or  an  angel's  tongue. 
He  woke  with  a  start,  for  his  secret  heart 
Felt  that  which  bade  all  his  dreams  depart. 


288  THE   HOMESTEAD   BARN 

"  Neophyte,  dreamer,  slumberer,  fool ! 
Wouldst  measure  my  power  by  musty  rule  ? 
Or,  say,  dost  thou  seek  what  thou  'It  hardly  own, 
The  Alchemist's  prize,  or  Philosopher's  stone  ? 
For  't  is  not  in  sophist's  or  sage's  thought, 
Is  the  mighty  power  of  knowledge  wrought; 

It  is  seen  in  the  practiced  deed, 
Not  of  musty  scrolls,  but  of  living  men ; 
The  hearts,  the  passions,  the  motives  ye  ken, 
Should  thy  knowledge  be,  and  its  '  power '  then 

Can  turn  them  to  thy  need; 
For  money  is  mighty,  money  is  power, 
And  beauty  is  strong  in  camp  and  bower ; 
But  money  's  the  proof  that  knowledge  is  power, 

And  beauty  its  slave,  indeed ; 
And,  remember,  that  knowledge  all  alone 

May  still  be  a  fatal  dower, 
And  the  strongest  lever  the  world  has  known 
Is  where  beauty  's  the  might  that 's  to  be  shown, 
And  gold's  the  prop  that  all  may  own, 

And  '  knowledge  is  the  power/1 " 


THE   HOMESTEAD   BARN1 

PAST  dreams  of  bliss  our  lives  contain, 
And  slight  the  chords  that  still  retain 
A  heart  estranged  to  joys  again, 
To  scenes  by  memory's  silver  chain 

Close-linked,  and  ever  yet  apart, 
That  like  the  vine,  whose  tendrils  young 
Around  some  fostering  branch  have  clung, 
Grown  with  its  growth,  as  tho'  it  sprung 

From  one  united  heart. 

1  Golden  Era,  June  21,  1857. 


THE   HOMESTEAD   BARN  289 

I  think  of  days  long  gone  before, 
When,  by  a  spreading  sycamore, 
Stood,  in  the  happy  days  of  yore, 
Low-roofed,  broad-gabled,  crannied  door, 

The  homestead  barn,  where  free  from  harm, 
In  shadowy  eaves  the  swallow  built, 
In  darkened  loft  the  owlet  dwelt ; 
Secure  lived  innocence  and  guilt 

Within  its  sacred  charm. 

By  cobwebbed  beams  and  rafters  high 
I  ?ve  sat  and  watched  .the  April  sky, 
And  saw  the  fleecy  cirrus  fly, 
Sunlight  and  shadow  hurrying  by, 

Chased  by  the  glittering  rain ; 
Then  shrunk  to  hear  the  pattering  tread 
Of  unseen  feet  above  my  head, 
Filled  with  a  strange  and  wondering  dread, 

Till  sunlight  smiled  again. 

And,  oh !  those  long,  those  summer  days, 
The  morning's  glow,  the  noontide's  blaze, 
Or  when  the  just  declining  rays, 
Half  shorn,  mixed  with  the  mellowing  haze, 
And  distant  hills  were  veiled  in  gray ; 
From  newmown  hay,  with  odors  sweet, 
I  've  watched  the  lowly  bending  wheat 
Droop  lower  in  the  yellow  heat 
The  lazy,  livelong  day. 

Those  summer  days  too  quickly  fled, 
And  my  youth's  summers  early  sped  ; 
Yet  when  my  "  sere  "  of  life  is  shed, 
I  would  were  mine  such  harvest  spread 
Within  that  barn  of  autumn  born, 


290  TRYSTING 

That  many  a  tale  of  summer  told, 
Where  golden  corn  and  pumpkins  rolled, 
And  apples,  that  might  scarcely  hold 
The  goddess'  fabled  horn ; 

When  springtime  brought  each  feathered  pair, 
When  summer  came  with  scented  air, 
When  autumn's  fruits  rolled  fresh  and  fair, 
Or  winter's  store  brought  back  the  year, 

The  treasured  sweets  it  multiplies; 
And  now  at  home,  at  eve  appear 
The  homestead  barn,  to  me  so  dear  ; 
I  would  I  read  my  right  as  clear 

"  To  mansions  in  the  skies." 


TKYSTING ! 

"  DOWN  at  the  turn  of  the  road 

Wait  for  me,  dearest,  at  eight !  " 
Here,  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
I  loiter,  and  linger,  and  wait. 

I  was  here  when  the  flickering  day 
Went  out  in  a  lingering  flame ; 

I  was  here  in  the  twilight  gray, 

And  the  stars  have  come  since  I  came. 

From  the  wooded  crest  of  the  hill 

Orion  looks  over  the  lea, 
And  Cetus  is  glimmering  still 

In  a  purple  and  crimson  sea. 

And  the  Pleiads  —  all  but  the  one, 
Withdrawn  in  her  maidenly  shame 
i  Golden  Era,  June  28, 1857. 


THE   FOG  BELL  291 

For  the  love  that  a  mortal  won  — 
Are  here,  and  you  should  be  the  same. 

She  comes  not !  I  turn  to  the  right, 
And  the  white  road  dips  in  the  gloom  ; 

She  comes  not !  the  left  to  my  sight 
Is  silent  and  dark  as  the  tomb. 

Those  tender  palms  on  my  eyes  ? 

Those  slender  arms  round  me  thrown  ? 
Cupid,  you  cannot  disguise 

Those  rosy  lips  at  my  own  ! 

Here,  at  the  turn  of  the  road  ! 

"  Forgive  me,  my  love,  if  I  'm  late  !  " 
Down  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 

Cupid,  oh  !  who  would  n't  wait  ? 


"THE    FOG  BELL"1 

A  DEEP  bell  is  knolling 

Over  the  sea, 
Rolling  and  tolling 

Over  the  sea ; 
Lazily  swinging, 
Steadily  bringing 

Tidings  of  terror, 
Danger  is  bringing, 

AH  the  while  solemnly, 
Mournfully  singing : 

"  Fogs  on  the  sand-bank," 

Fogs  on  the  deep, 
1  Golden  Era,  September  27,  1857. 


292  THE   FOG  BELL 

Fogs  round  the  gallant  ship 
Stealthily  creep ; 

Fogs  on  the  forecastle, 
Quarter  and  waist, 

Fog  in  the  binnacle, 
Fog  in  each  place  ; 

Fog  in  the  country, 

Fog  on  the  moor, 
On  the  green  upland, 

On  the  white  shore  j 
Fog  in  the  marshes, 

Fog  in  the  brake, 
Upon  the  river, 

Over  the  lake. 

Fog  in  the  city, 

In  the  broad  street  — 
There  want  and  luxury 

Heedlessly  meet ; 
Fog  in  the  narrow  lane, 

In  the  dark  way  — 
There  shines  the  light  of  truth 

Never  a  ray. 

Fog  in  the  haunts  of  crime  — 

Vice  and  despair ; 
Fog  in  the  Justice  seat 

Denser  than  there ; 
Fog  in  the  capitol, 

Where  in  the  hall 
Grave  legislators  meet  — 

Fogs  over  all. 

Fog  in  the  miser's  heart, 
Dark'ning  and  drear  j 


JESSIE  293 


Fog  that,  in  pity's  eye, 
Melts  to  a  tear  ; 

Things  that  delusively 
In  the  fogs  loom, 

Men  still  unceasingly 
Grope  for  in  gloom. 

Fog  in  the  country, 

Fog  on  the  deep, 
Fogs  in  the  city 

Stealthily  creep; 
Darkness  around  us, 

Darker,  in  sooth, 
Were  there  no  heavenly 

Sunlight  and  truth. 


"JESSIE"1 

SHE  is  tripping,  she  is  tripping 

Down  the  green  and  shady  lane, 
And  each  footstep 's  like  the  dripping 

Of  the  early  April  rain. 
As  she  passes,  fragrant  grasses, 

Blooming  flowers  spring  up  again 
Where  her  dainty  footprint  presses, 

As  from  early  April  rain. 

Oh,  the  blessed,  oft  caressed, 

Flowing,  glowing,  auburn  tresses, 

Or  the  fairy  shape  impressed 
In  the  gracefullest  of  dresses ; 

To  behold  her,  is  to  fold  her 
To  your  heart  in  puzzled  bliss, 
i  Golden  Era,  October  11,  1857. 


294  DOLORES 

Whether  still  to  wish  her  older 
Or  that  she  were  always  this. 

Gentle  Jessie!     Heaven  bless  ye, 

From  your  slipper's  dainty  toe 
To  the  jaunty,  canty,  dressy 

Little  flat's  most  killing  bow ! 
Would  kind  Heaven  power  had  given 

Me  the  proper  path  to  show 
Those  retreating  footsteps,  even 

Guiding  them  the  way  to  go. 


"  DOLOEES  "  i 

SEVILLE  's  towers  are  worn  and  old ; 
Seville 's  towers  are  gray  and  gold  : 
Saffron,  purple,  and  orange  dyes, 
Meet  at  the  edge  of  her  sunset  skies : 
Bright  are  Seville's  maidens'  eyes, 
Gay  the  cavalier's  guitar: 
Music,  laughter,  low  replies, 
Intermingling ;  and  afar, 
Over  the  hill,  over  the  dell, 
Soft  and  low  :  Adagio  ! 
Comes  the  knell  of  the  vesper-bell, 
Solemnly  and  slow. 

Hooded  nun,  at  the  convent  wall, 
Where  the  purple  vines  their  tendrils  throw, 
Lingering,  looking,  wouldst  recall 
Aught  of  this  giddy  scene  below  ? 
Turn  that  pensive  glance  on  high: 
Seest  thou  the  floods  in  yon  blessed  sky, 
The  Knickerbocker,  or  New- York  Monthly  Magazine,  January,  1858. 


Lingering,  looking,  wouldst  recall 
Aught  of  this  giddy  scene  below? 


DOLORES  295 

The  shores  of  those  isles  of  the  good  and  blest, 

Meeting,  mingling,  down  the  west  ? 

E  'en  as  thou  gazest,  lo !  they  fade : 

So  doth  the  world  from  these  walls  surveyed; 

Fleeting,  false,  delusive  show ; 

Beauty's  form,  but  hectic's  glow. 

"  The  convent-walls  are  steep  and  high : 
DOLORES  !  why  are  your  cheeks  so  pale  ? 
Why  do  those  lashes  silent  lie 
Over  the  orbs  they  scarce  can  veil, 
E'en  as  the  storm-cloud,  dim  and  dark, 
Shrouding  the  faint  electric  spark  ? 
Canst  thou  those  languid  fires  conceal, 
Which  scorched  the  youth  of  fair  Castile  ? 
That  tender  half-distracted  air  — 
Can  that  be  faith  ;  or  is  't  despair  ? 
That  step,  now  feeble,  faltering,  slow; 
Is  that  the  lightly  tripping  toe 
That  gayly  beat  the  throbbing  floor, 
Or  woke  the  echoing  corridor, 
By  purple  Tagus'  rippling  shore, 
A  summer  month  ago  ?  " 

Sister,  listen,  nearer,  higher! 
Voices  sweet  in  the  distant  choir : 
"  Salve  !  salve  !  ave  Maria  ! 
VIRGIN,  blest  with  JESUS'  love, 
Turn  our  thoughts  to  thee  above !  " 

"DOLORES  !  "     Mark  ye  that  dying  fall  ? 
"DOLORES  !  "     Ho  there  !  within  the  wall : 

Fly  ye  !  the  Ladye  Superior  call : 

A  nun  has  fled  from  the  convent  wall ! 


296  THE    BAILIE   0'    PERTH 


ELISE1 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM  ;  CIRCA  1858 

A  ROSE  —  thrown  on  the  drifting  tide 
That  laughs  along  the  tinkling  brook,  — 
Tho'  here  and  there  it  idly  glide, 
Finds  rest  within  some  sheltered  nook : 

And  thus  some  heart  tossed  on  the  stream 
Of  time  —  impelled  by  passion's  breeze 
And  folly's  breath  —  may  find  a  dream 
Of  hope  — upon  thy  breast,  — Elise  ! 


THE   BAILIE   0'   PEETH2 

(Bret  Harte's  first  dialect  poem) 

THE  Bailie  o'  Perth  was  a  blithesome  mon, 

And  a  blithesome  mon  was  he, 
And  his  gude  wife  lov'd  him  well  and  true, 

And  the  bailie  he  lov'd  she ; 
Yet  mickle  or  muckle  the  cause  or  kind, 

Whatever  the  pother  be, 
Be  it  simple  sair  or  unco  deep, 

The  twain  could  never  agree. 

Syne  spake  the  bailie  with  blithesome  mind, 

Fair  and  soft  spake  he : 
"Twal  lang  year  hae  we  married  been, 

Yet  we  can  never  agree. 
Now,  my  ain  sweet  love,  let  us  try  for  aye, 
Forever  and  aye  to  see 

1  Overland  Monthly,  September,  1902. 

2  Golden  Era,  December  12,  1858. 


QUESTION  297 

If  for  ain  blest  time  in  all  our  life, 
You  and  I  can  ever  agree. 

"  Now  listen  to  me :  should  it  chance  that  ye 

Were  paidlint  in  the  lane, 
Ye  should  meet  a  bonnie  buxom  lass, 

And  a  winsome  laddie,  twain, 
Wha  wad  ye  kiss,  good  dame  ?  "  he  said, 

"  Wha  wad  ye  kiss  ?  "  said  he  ; 
"  Wad  ye  kiss  the  bonnie  buxom  lass, 
Or  the  winsome  gay  laddie  ?  " 

"  Hoot  awa,  mon  !  are  ye  ganging  daft  ? 

Are  ye  ganging  daft  ?  "  said  she ; 
"  Twal  lang  year  hae  we  married  been, 

And  I  have  been  true  to  ye; 
Mon  hae  never  my  twa  lips  touched, 

Nae  mon  hae  glinted  at  me." 
"  But  wha  wad  ye  kiss,  good  dame  ?  "  said  he  ; 

"  I  wad  kiss  the  lass,"  said  she. 

Out  laughed  the  bailie  with  muckle  glee, 

For  a  blithesome  mon  was  he ; 
"Twal  lang  year  hae  we  married  been, 

And  now  for  ainst  we  agree ; 
If  ye  met  a  lad  and  a  buxom  lass 

Down  in  the  gowans  fine, 
To  kiss  the  lass  wad  be  your  choice, 

And  I  ken  it  wad  be  mine !  " 


QUESTION1 

WHEN  I  meet  her  little  figure, 
Simple,  guileless  little  figure, 
i  Golden  Era,  June  17, 1860. 


298  QUESTION 

With  its  graceful  crest  that  tosses 

Up  and  down  the  flowing  sea, 
Does  she  dream  that  all  above  her  — 
All  around  her — still  must  love  her, 
Just  as  I  do?     Does  she  ever 
Look  at  me  ? 

When  the  sunset's  flush  is  on  her, 
Do  her  fancies  ever  wander, 
Do  her  girlish  fancies  ever 

Mingle  with  the  flowing  sea  ? 
In  her  tender  meditation, 
In  her  mystic  speculation, 
Is  there  any  lonely  figure 

Just  like  me? 

When  she  took  the  flowers  I  sent  her  — 
Sent  in  secret  —  sent  in  longing ; 
And  all,  all,  except  the  daisy, 

Tossed  them  on  the  flowing  sea; 
When  she  placed  that  happy  flower 
On  her  bosom's  trembling  dower, 
Now  I  wonder  did  she  ever 

Think  of  me  ? 

Hush,  my  heart.     She 's  coming,  coming ; 
Loud  above  the  city 's  humming, 
I  can  hear  her  footfall's  beating, 

With  the  ever  flowing  sea. 
Rosy  red  —  a  flush  is  on  her, 
As  she  passes  —  have  I  won  her? 
Eros !  help  me  —  I  am  sinking 

In  the  ever  flowing  sea. 


LETHE  299 


LETHE1 

STANZAS  FOB  MUSIC 


LOVE  once  sat  by  a  willow  shade, 

That  grew  by  a  fabled  river; 
His  bow  unstrung,  by  his  side  he  laid, 
And  hung  up  his  classic  quiver. 

Love  then  cried ; 
"Ye  who've  sighed, 
For  passion  unrequited  — 
In  this  flood 
Love's  young  bud, 
Plunged —  is  ever  blighted  ! " 

ii 

There  came  a  maid  to  the  willow  shade, 

Her  heart  with  passion  swelling ; 
A  hopeless  love  on  her  sweet  cheek  preyed, 
In  her  breast  a  deep  grief  dwelling. 
But,  oh,  think! 
On  the  brink, 

Lingered  that  sad  daughter ; 
While  her  fair 
Graces  rare, 
Mirrored  back  the  water. 

in 

From  her  cheeks  she  parts  each  tress, 
Proudly  back  she  threw  them ; 

Crimson  tints  her  cheeks  confess, 
As  she  paused  to  view  them. 
1  Golden  Era,  July  1,  1860. 


300  MIDAS'  WOOING 

"  Is  it  meet 

One  so  sweet, 
In  that  gloomy  river  — 

Plunge  for  love  ? 

Saints  above ! 
Ugh !  It  makes  me  shiver! " 


MIDAS'  WOOING1 

MIDAS  woos  with  coach  and  pair, 
Midas  woos  with  princely  air, 
Midas  sits  within  in  state, 
But  another  's  at  the  gate. 

What  cares  Midas  who  waits  there, 
Kate  's  within  and  Kate  is  fair, 
Young  and  lively:  that  is  well, 
Has  she  got  a  heart  to  sell  ? 

Kate  can  sing  if  she  but  try, 
She  might,  were  another  by ; 
Katie  sings  a  lover's  air, 
Will  she  find  an  echo  there  ? 

Kate  plays  best  of  all  the  girls, 
Katie  plays  the  "Shower  of  Pearls," 
Some  one  in  that  witching  hour, 
Thinks  of  Jove,  and  Danae's  shower. 

From  above  the  hawthorn  bush, 
Peeps  the  moon  and  wakes  the  thrush, 
Bird  and  moon  and  music  grate, 
Like  the  hinges  on  the  gate. 

1  Golden  Era,  August  26,  1860. 


THE   WRECKER  301 

Midas  rises  —  takes  his  cane, 
"Will  be  proud  to  call  again. " 
Off  goes  Midas.     Off  goes  Kate ; 
Two  stand  at  the  garden  gate. 

THE   WKECKEK  1 

(From  a  Painting) 

"Ho,  Mark  and  Will!     What,  shirking  men! 

Why  do  ye  loiter  along  the  sand,  — 
Twiddling  your  thumbs  and  idling,  when 

So  brave  a  cargo  bestrews  the  land  ? 
Lend  a  hand  to  this  bale  of  spice 

Fragrant  as  breezes  from  India's  shore, 
And  this  oaken  chest  that  buried  lies 

I  warrant,  with  dollars  a  precious  store. 

"  You  tell  me  she  was  a  noble  ship ! 

And  a  noble  cargo  she  cast  away ; 
And  the  Captain  thought  of  a  lucky  trip  — 

And  the  crew  —  they  all  were  lost,  you  say  ? 
1 T  is  a  blessed  wreck,  for  I  dreamt  this  night 

That  my  daughter  Nan,  with  her  looks  of  grace, 
She  that  fled  from  her  father's  sight, 

Stood  by  my  hammock,  face  to  face. 

"  And  I  knew  that  I  yet  might  hoard  and  save 

Enough  to  follow  her  some  fair  day ; 
It  was  God  who  sent  a  barque  so  brave  — 

May  he  shrive  the  souls  that  were  cast  away, 
Then  haste  ye,  men  —  why  do  ye  stare  ? 
Why  do  ye  turn  your  eyes  from  mine  ? 
Why  do  you  gaze  at  the  open  air  ? 

At  the  land,  at  the  beacon  and  flashing  brine!" 
l  Golden  Era,  September  9,  1860. 


302  THE  WRECKER 

"  Master  !     The  waves  were  wild  to-night 

And  ran  like  wolves  on  the  smooth  white  beach, 
And  broke  with  a  roar  on  the  rocky  bight, 

And  swept  to  the  cliffs  in  their  length'ning  reach. 
And  she  struck,  d'  ye  see,  upon  '  Devils  Back/ 

And  in  less  than  the  turn  of  a  glass  was  gone 
And  I  heard  her  spars  and  timbers  crack 

Over  the  sea  and  the  whistling  storm. 

\ 

"  And  we  saw,  —  'twas  Bill  and  I  stood  here  — 

A  great  wave  come  to  the  lab' ring  ship 
As  she  thumped  and  struggled  as  though  in  fear  — 

But  it  caught  her  up  like  a  cooper's  chip 
And  then  there  was  naught  but  the  boiling  surge, 

And  the  hissing  water  —  but  soon  to  view 
A  speck  seemed  borne  to  the  glimmery  verge 

Of  the  rocky  bight  —  and  Bill  saw  it  too. 

"  So  we  ran  —  Bill  and  I  —  and  Bill  dashed  out 

With  a  line  that  I  held,  slung  around  his  waist, 
And  thrice  he  rolled  over  and  bobbed  about 

And  thrice  he  brought  up  at  the  selfsame  place. 
He'll  tell  you  so,  Master,  —  'twas  not  his  fault, 

If  after  he  struggled  an  hour  there, 
He  only  caught  something  —  7t  was  damp  and  salt, 

And  dragged  it  out  by  its  long  fair  hair. 

"  But  we  laid  it  afterward  on  the  sand, 

Take  my  arm,  Master,  I  '11  show  you  what. " 
They  led  him  down  on  the  cold  white  sand 

And  up  to  a  quiet  and  sheltered  spot, 
And  there  by  the  billows,  and  beacon's  light, 

Again  he  was  standing  face  to  face, 
As  he  stood  in  a  dream  on  that  stormy  night, 

With  his  daughter  Nan  and  her  look  of  grace. 


EFFIE  303 


BY  THE   SAD   SEA  WAVES1 

I  WAS  walking  down  on  the  sands  one  night 
With  the  girl  of  my  choice  —  the  woman  I  loved  ; 
And  I  picked  up  a  shell  on  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  thought  even  thus  shall  my  love  be  proved: 

"  Take  this,  dearest  girl,  for  7t  is  like  to  me," 
Said  I  with  a  gesture  of  fond  entreat ; 

" '  Tis  a  stranger  come  from  the  changing  sea 
To  languish  and  die  at  thy  own  dear  feet ! " 

She  looked  in  my  face  in  her  scornful  glee, 
While  her  dainty  foot  beat  the  cold  white  sand, 

"  I  will  take  the  shell,  but  not  you,"  said  she ; 

"  He  offers  his  house,  you  only  your  hand  ! " 


EFFIE  2 

EFFIE  is  both  young  and  fair, 
Dewy  eyes  and  sunny  hair; 
Sunny  hair  and  dewy  eyes 
Are  not  where  her  beauty  lies. 

Effie  is  both  fond  and  true, 
Heart  of  gold  and  will  of  yew ; 
Will  of  yew  and  heart  of  gold  — 
Still  her  charms  are  scarcely  told. 

1  Golden  Era,  October  7,  1860. 

2  This  poem  originally  appeared  in  the  Golden  Era.    It  was  later  pub 
lished  in  St.  Nicholat  Magazine,  with  the  name  changed  to  Jessie,  and 
afterward  set  to  music  under  that  title  by  Leopold  Damrosch,  and  also  by 
N.  H.  Allen. 


304  SERENADE 

If  she  yet  remain  unsung, 
Pretty,  constant,  docile,  young, 
What  remains  not  here  compiled  ? 
Erne  is  a  little  child ! 

MY   SOUL   TO   THINE1 

A    TRANSCENDENTAL    VALENTINE 

ANTITHESIS  of  Light,  which  is  but  gloom, 

Myself  in  darkness  shrouds ;  I  know  not  why 
Thy  glances  re-illumine  —  yet  of  them,  One 
Is  ever  in  my  eye  ! 

Perchance  't  is  why  I  hold  this  thought  most  dear  — 
What  is,  may  still  be,  what  is  fixed  won't  change : 
The  Future  and  the  Past  are  not  as  clear 
As  things  that  are  less  strange. 

Who  knows  what 's  What,  yet  says  not  which  is  Which 

He  is  reticent  and  precise  in  speech ; 
The  same  should  tune  his  thoughts  to  concert  pitch 
By  some  deep  sounding  beach. 

But  he  who  knoweth  Which  and  what  is  Which  — 

He  is  not  simple  nor  perchance  is  dull  — 
Shall  occupy  himself  a  vacant  niche 
In  some  stupendous  Whole. 

SERENADE 
(ADAPTED  TO  THE  LATITUDE  OP  SAN  FRANCISCO) 

"  0  LIST,  lady,  list !  while  thy  lover  outside 

Pours  forth  those  fond  accents  that  thrill  thee ; 
i  Golden  Era,  February  17,  1861. 


THE  PRIZE-FIGHTER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS  305 

0  list!  both  thy  doors  and  thy  windows  beside 
For  fear  that  some  thorough  draught  chill  thee. 

The  '  sweet  summer  morn  's '  hanging  low  in  the  sky, 
And  the  fog 's  drifting  wildly  around  me ; 

There  is  damp  in  my  throat,  there  is  sand  in  my  eye, 
And  my  old  friend  Neuralgia  has  found  me. 

"  0  list,  lady,  list !  ere  this  thin  searching  mist 

Subdues  all  my  amorous  frenzy; 
The  Pleiads'  '  soft  influence '  here  is,  I  wist, 

Replaced  by  the  harsh  influenza ; 
And  now,  lady  sweet,  I  must  bid  thee  'good-night/ 

A  night  that  would  quench  Hymen's  torch,  love, 
For  a  lute  by  the  fire  is  much  more  polite, 

Than  a  song  and  catarrh  in  the  porch,  love." 


THE  PRIZE-FIGHTER  TO  HIS   MISTRESS1 

0,  BELIEVE  not  the  party  who  says  love  is  bought, 
Nor  lend  thy  fond  "  lug  "  when  his  tale  he  'd  begin ; 

But  bid  him  behold  thy  dear  "  mug  "  on  this  breast, 
This  "  bunch  of  fives  "  clasping  thy  own  lovely  "  fin." 

Or  show  him  the  "  home-brewed  "  that  flushes  thy  "  nob," 
When  in  thy  "jug-handle"  my  love  I  recite, 

And  then  if  his  "  goggles  "  are  not  Cupid's  own, 
He  '11  reel  to  his  corner  at  that  "  draft  at  sight." 

What  "punishment"  waits  on  the  cove  that  deceives, 
How  "soggy"  the  "smasher"  that  gets  him  so  prime, 

When  he  "  throws  up  the  sponge  "  at  the  ultimate  round, 
And  Eternity  calls  —  and  he  can't  "come  to  Time." 
i  Golden  Era,  October  11,  1863. 


306  MARY'S  ALBUM 

Yet,  Mary,  dear  Mary,  such  love  is  not  mine, 

But  "mawley"  in  "mawley"  together  we'll  tread; 

The  "belt"  for  the  cestus  of  Venus  I'll  change, 

And  know  but  one  "King"  —  in  the  ring  we  are  wed. 


MAKY'S   ALBUM1 

WRITTEN    IN    1863,  in  AN    ALBUM  BELONGING   TO 
CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 

SWEET  MARY,  maid  of  San  Andreas, 

Upon  her  natal  day, 
Procured  an  album,  double-gilt, 

Entitled,  "The  Bouquet." 

But  what  its  purpose  was  beyond 
Its  name,  she  could  not  guess; 

And  so  between  its  gilded  leaves 
The  flowers  he  gave  she  'd  press. 

Yet  blame  her  not,  poetic  youth ! 

Nor  deem  too  great  the  wrong ; 
She  knew  not  Hawthorne's  bloom,  nor  loved 

Macaulay-flowers  of  song. 

Her  hymn-book  was  the  total  sum 

Of  her  poetic  lore, 
And,  having  read  through  Dr.  Watts, 

She  did  not  ask  for  Moore. 

But  when  she  ope'd  her  book  again, 

How  great  was  her  surprise 
To  find  the  leaves  on  either  side 

Stained  deep  with  crimson  dyes. 
1  Califomian,  April,  1880. 


THE   REJECTED   STOCKHOLDER  307 

And  in  that  rose  —  his  latest  gift  — 

A  shapeless  form  she  views; 
Its  fragrance  sped,  its  beauty  fled, 

And  vanished  all  its  dews. 


0  Mary,  maid  of  San  Andreas ! 

Too  sad  was  your  mistake  — 
Yet  one,  methinks,  that  wiser  folk 

Are  very  apt  to  make. 

Who  ?twixt  these  leaves  would  fix  the  shapes 

That  love  and  truth  assume, 
Will  find  they  keep,  like  Mary's  rose, 

The  stain,  and  not  the  bloom. 


THE  REJECTED  STOCKHOLDER1 

A    LOCAL    MONOLOGUE 

I  THOUGHT  that  I  had  won  her  heart, 

Before  assessments  came 
To  chill  the  fever  of  her  blood 

And  check  her  youthful  flame ; 
But  ah  !   't  was  not  for  me,  but  mine, 

She  spread  her  female  snares  — 
I  asked  for  one  to  share  my  love, 

And  not  to  love  my  shares  ! 

I  wooed  her  when  the  young  May  moon 

And  tranquil  patient  stars 
Their  lustre  spread,  and  all  the  earth 

Seemed  strewn  with  silver  bars; 

Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  January  20,  1864. 


308  THE   REJECTED   STOCKHOLDER 

Her  praise  I  whispered  to  the  sky, 
The  free  winds  spoke  her  fame, 

And  one  location  —  all  in  vain  — 
I  took  —  in  her  sweet  name ! 


But  now  another's  offering  lies 

Before  that  fickle  shrine ; 
Another  claims  her  hand  —  his  claim 

Is  worth  much  more  than  mine; 
But  though  he  offers  all  I  lack 

To  make  her  joy  complete  — 
I  would  not  stand  in  that  man's  shoes 

Unless  I  had  his  feet ! 

0,  tell  me  not  of  golden  legs 
That  Kilmanseggs  have  known ; 

They  're  nothing  to  the  silver  feet 
My  fickle  fair  would  own. 

The  dream  is  past ;  but  in  these  fond 
'Certificates  I  view  — 

Observe,  ye  credulous,  what  faith 
And  printers'  ink  may  do. 

My  loving  verses  she  returns 

Though  once  she  thought  them  fine  — 
She  's  grown  so  critical  in  feet 

She  scans  each  faulty  line. 
And  yet  my  fate  I  meekly  bear 

And  find  relief  in  sighs  ; 
For  oh,  no  Savage  rules  this  breast, 

Nor  Chollar  that  may  rise ! 

Oh,  youth,  who  seekest  Fortune's  smile, 
Shun,  if  thou  canst,  alway, 


ON  A  NAUGHTY  LITTLE   BOY,    SLEEPING  309 

The  woman's  wile,  the  broker's  guile, 

That  gild  but  to  betray. 
So  use  this  world  that  in  the  next, 

When  here  thy  days  shall  end, 
Thy  last  six  feet  of  earth  shall  yield 

To  thee  a  dividend ! 


ON  A  NAUGHTY  LITTLE  BOY,  SLEEPING1 

JUST  now  I  missed  from  hall  and  stair 
A  joyful  treble  that  had  grown 
As  dear  to  me  as  that  grave  tone 

That  tells  the  world  my  older  care. 

And  little  footsteps  on  the  floor 

Were  stayed.     I  laid  aside  my  pen, 
Forgot  my  theme,  and  listened  —  then 

Stole  softly  to  the  library  door. 

No  sight !  no  sound !  —  a  moment's  freak 

Of  fancy  thrilled  my  pulses  through: 
"  If —  no  "  —  and  yet,  that  fancy  drew 
A  father's  blood  from  heart  and  cheek. 

And  then  —  I  found  him  !     There  he  lay, 
Surprised  by  sleep,  caught  in  the  act, 
The  rosy  vandal  who  had  sacked 

His  little  town,  and  thought  it  play  : 

The  shattered  vase  ;  the  broken  jar ; 

A  match  still  smouldering  on  the  floor ; 

The  inkstand's  purple  pool  of  gore; 
The  chessmen  scattered  near  and  far. 

1  Californian,  September  17,  1864.    Harper's  Magazine,  July,  1877. 


310  AT  THE   SEPULCHRE 

Strewn  leaves  of  albums  lightly  pressed 
This  wicked  "Baby  of  the  Woods  " ; 
In  fact,  of  half  the  household  goods 

This  son  and  heir  was  seized  —  possessed. 

Yet  all  in  vain,  for  sleep  had  caught 

The  hand  that  reached,  the  feet  that  strayed ; 
And  fallen  in  that  ambuscade 

The  victor  was  himself  o'erwrought. 

What  though  torn  leaves  and  tattered  book 
Still  testified  his  deep  disgrace ! 
I  stooped  and  kissed  the  inky  face, 

With  its  demure  and  calm  outlook. 

Then  back  I  stole,  and  half  beguiled 
My  guilt,  in  trust  that  when  my  sleep 
Should  come,  there  might  be  One  who  'd  keep 

An  equal  mercy  for  His  child. 


AT   THE   SEPULCHRE1 

(Thomas  Starr  King) 

SUNDAY,  OCTOBER  9,  1864 

HERE  in  God's  sunshine,  peaceful  lie, 
Though  not  beneath  yon  arches'  swell ; 

One  springing  roof  alone  —  the  sky  — 
Can  hold  the  flock  that  loved  thee  well. 

Yon  sacred  gates  are  free  to  all, 

Who  join  in  Sabbath  praise  and  prayer; 

l  Californian,  October  15,  1864. 


AT  THE   SEPULCHRE  311 

Thy  pulpit  grave,  beside  shall  call 

A  week-day  fold  from  street  and  square. 

Though  o'er  thy  tomb  no  anthems  rise, 
The  world  its  labor-hymn  shall  sing, 

And  sliding  footsteps  drown  the  sighs 
Of  small-tongued  grasses,  whispering. 

And  greener  yet  that  spot  shall  grow, 

For  thy  dear  dust  within  it  laid, 
And  brighter  yet  the  sunlight  glow  — 

And  dim  and  grateful  seem  the  shade. 

For  when  the  sun  slopes  down  the  west, 

The  shadow  of  yon  sacred  wall, 
Like  God's  right  arm  across  thy  breast 

Near  and  protectingly  shall  fall. 

And  all  night  long  above  thy  urn 

The  patient  stars  shall  pierce  the  gloom, 

Like  those  eternal  lamps  that  burn 
And  circle  round  a  royal  tomb. 

And  those  who  deemed  they  knew  the  best 
Shall  find  how  foolish  was  their  claim  — 

And  fear  thy  liberal  bounty,  lest 
It  clip  their  dividend  of  fame. 

And  some  of  humbler  faith  shall  stand 
Before  thy  tomb,  and  watch  its  door, 

Expectant  that  some  angel's  hand 
May  roll  the  stone  that  lies  before. 


312  ARCADIA  REVISITED 


ARCADIA   REVISITED1 

AH,  here  's  the  spot  —  the  very  tree 
Where  once  I  carved  an  L.  and  E., 
Symbolical  of  her  and  me 

Bound  in  Love's  rosy  fetters ; 
Since  then  five  weary  years  are  spent, 
And  yet  I  think  we  Jre  both  content 
That  in  Love's  Book  we  never  went 

Beyond  our  simple  letters. 

For,  looking  through  the  rustling  leaves, 
I  see  the  humble  cottage  eaves 
Where  now  my  Em.  no  longer  weaves 

Her  mystic  maiden  fancies, 
But  milks  her  cows  —  she  called  'em  kine 
In  the  brave  days  when  she  was  mine  — 
But  now  she 's  dropped  those  phrases  fine 

She  borrowed  from  romances. 

But  here 's  the  place  —  the  very  tree 

Where  once  I  fell  on  bended  knee 

And  breathed  my  burning  vows  —  while  she 

Stood  by  in  pale  pink  muslin. 
I  kissed  her  hand  —  but  why  revamp 
Old  feelings  now  ?  —  the  grass  is  damp, 
And  what  with  this  rheumatic  cramp 

To  kneel  now  would  be  puzzling. 

She  walks  no  more  'neath  starlit  skies, 
She  calls  the  evening  mists  that  rise 
Miasma,  and  the  dew  that  lies 
Is  damp  and  cold  and  shocking, 
l  Californian,  July  22,  1865. 


ARCADIA  REVISITED  313 

She  now  wears  boots.     Five  years  ago 
Her  skirts  she  gathered  up  below  ; 
'T  was  not  from  dampness,  but  to  show 
Her  slippers  and  white  stocking. 

Beneath  this  shade  we  used  to  read 
"  Maud  Muller,"  and  we  both  agreed 
The  Judge  was  wrong  —  but  why  proceed  ? 

She 's  married  to  another  ! 
She  has  not  pined  —  that  form  is  stout 
That  once  this  arm  was  clasped  about, 
She  has  two  girls ;  they  're  both,  no  doubt, 
The  image  of  their  mother ! 

She  said  she  loved  not  "  wealth  or  state," 
But  most  adored  the  "  wise  and  great," 
And  gave  a  look  to  intimate 

That  this  was  my  complexion  ; 
"  Her  husband  should  be  eyed  like  Mars," 
That  's  he,  there,  letting  down  the  bars, 
In  cowhide  boots.     N o  doubt  her  Pa's, 

But  0,  not  her  selection ! 

And  yet,  am  I  her  young  love's  dream  : 

The  pensive  lover  that  did  seem 

The  rightful  Prince  who  should  redeem 

The  promise  of  her  fancies  ? 
And  I  that  same  dyspeptic  youth 
Who  rang  the  chimes  on  "sooth"  and  "truth,' 
Minus  that  cuspidate  tooth 

Whose  presence  kills  romances  ? 


0  Love,  behind  yon  leafy  screen  ! 
Why  can't  all  trees  be  evergreen  ? 


314  THE   SABBATH  BELLS 

Why  can't  all  girls  be  sweet  sixteen, 
All  men  but  one-and-twenty  ? 

Why  are  the  scars  that  hearts  must  wear 

Deeper  than  those  yon  tree  may  bear  ? 

And  why  are  lovers  now  so  rare, 
And  married  folk  so  plenty  ? 


THE   SABBATH   BELLS1 
SUNDAY,  JULY  so,  1865 

KING,  Sabbath  bells,  O  softly  ring, 
And  with  your  peaceful  accents  bring 
To  loving  ears  a  welcome  tale 
Of  flowing  seas  and  gentle  gale  — 

King! 

Peal,  all  ye  Sabbath  bells  —  0  peal, 
And  tell  the  few  who  watch  and  kneel 
Of  hidden  snares  and  sunken  rocks, 
Of  surges  white  and  sudden  shocks  — 

Peal! 

Toll,  0  ye  Sabbath  bells,  and  toll 
Each  passing  and  heroic  soul : 
Toll  for  the  sacrifices  sweet, 
For  duty  done  and  work  complete  — 

Toll  I 

Chime,  0  ye  Sabbath  bells,  0  chime  ! 
Each  man  has  his  appointed  time ; 
The  worst  is  but  a  glad  release  ; 
Chime,  Sabbath  bells,  a  song  of  Peace  — 

Chime  ! 

I  Californian,  August  5, 1865. 


IMPORTANT  MEXICAN   CORRESPONDENCE  315 

IMPORTANT   MEXICAN  CORRESPONDENCE  * 

AN  INTERCEPTED  LETTER 

Dear  Trem :  — 

From  "  orange  groves  and  fields  of  balm " 

These  loving  lines  I  send, 
But  first  you  really  ought  to  know 
The  feelings  of  your  friend. 

For  when  it 's  winter  where  you  live, 

The  weather  here 's  like  June ; 
The  "  Season's  Choir  "  Thomson  sings, 

In  fact,  is  out  of  tune. 

All  day  at  ninety-eight  degrees 

The  mercury  has  stood, 
Without  a  figure  I  may  say, 

I'm  "in  a  melting  mood." 

The  fields  are  parched  and  so  ?s  my  lips  — 

I  quaff  at  every  spring ; 
So  dry  a  "summer,"  Trem,  my  dear, 

"Two  swallows"  could  not  bring. 

You  know  "  two  swallows  do  not  make 

It  summer  "  —  but  methinks 
The  summer  in  this  latitude 

Is  made  of  many  drinks. 

The  politics,  I  grieve  to  say, 

I  find  in  great  confusion  — 
For  like  the  earth  the  people  have 

A  daily  revolution. 

l  California**,  September  23, 1865. 


316  IMPORTANT  MEXICAN  CORRESPONDENCE 

Their  manners  to  a  stranger  here, 

Is  stranger  yet  to  see ; 
Last  night  in  going  to  a  ball 

A  ball  went  into  me. 

I  'm  fond  of  reading,  as  you  know, 

But  then  it  was  a  sin 
To  be  obliged  against  my  will, 

To  take  a  Bullet-in. 

They  cried,  «  DIGS  Y  LIBERTAD  ! " 

And  then  pitched  into  me ; 
I  hate  to  hear  a  sacred  name 
Used  with  such  "  liberty." 

I  should  have  said  to  you  before, 

But  every  method  fails, 
For  since  they  have  impressed  the  men, 

Of  course,  they  ;ve  stopped  the  males. 


POEMS  OF  LOCAL  INTEREST 

1857-1869 


"MAD  BIVER"1 

WHERE  the  Eedwood  spires  together 
Pierce  the  mists  in  stormy  weather, 
Where  the  willow's  topmost  feather 

Waves  the  limpid  waters  o'er ; 
Where  the  long  and  sweeping  surges 
Sing  their  melancholy  dirges, 
There  the  river  just  emerges 

On  the  sad  Pacific's  shore. 

From  the  headland,  high  and  hoary, 
From  the  western  promontory, 
Where  the  sunset  seas  of  glory 

Sparkle  with  an  emerald  sheen, 
You  may  see  it  slowly  twining, 
In  the  valley  low  reclining, 
Like  a  fringe  of  silver  shining  — 

Edging  on  a  mantle  green. 

You  can  see  its  gleaming  traces 
In  the  vale  —  the  pleasant  places 
Where,  amidst  the  alder's  mazes, 

There  the  salmon  berries  grow, 
Until  faint  and  fainter  growing, 
In  the  upland  dimly  flowing, 
Where  the  serried  hills  are  showing, 

And  the  shadows  come  and  go. 

In  those  days,  long  gone  and  over, 
Ere  the  restless  pale-faced  rover 
Sought  the  quiet  Indian  cover, 
Many,  many  moons  ago, 
1  Golden  Era,  July  26,  1857. 


320  THE   PONY  EXPRESS 

Warrior  braves  met  one  another, 
Not  as  ally,  friend  or  brother, 
But  the  fires  of  hate  to  smother 
In  the  placid  water's  flow. 

All  the  day  they  fierce  contended, 
And  the  battle  scarce  had  ended 
When  the  bloody  sun  descended, 

And  the  river  bore  away 
All  the  remnants  of  that  slaughter 
In  a  crimson  tide,  the  water, 
And  they  call  it  PATAWATA,  l 

Ever  since  the  fatal  day. 


THE  PONY  EXPKESS2 

(The  Pony  Express  was,  at  one  time,  the  sole  dependence  of  the  Pacific 
Coast  for  the  latest  news  from  the  Atlantic) 

IN  times  of  adventure,  of  battle  and  song, 
When  the  heralds  of  victory  galloped  along, 
They  spurred  their  faint  steeds,  lest  the  tidings  too  late 
Might  change  a  day's  fortune,  a  throne,  or  a  state. 
Though  theirs  was  all  honor  and  glory  —  no  less 
Is  his,  the  bold  Knight  of  the  Pony  Express. 
No  corselet,  no  vizor,  nor  helmet  he  wears, 
No  war-stirring  trumpet  or  banner  he  bears, 
But  pressing  the  sinewy  flanks  of  his  steed, 
Behold  the  fond  missives  that  bid  him  "  God-speed. " 
Some  ride  for  ambition,  for  glory,  or  less, 
"  Five  dollars  an  ounce  "  asks  the  Pony  Express. 

l  Patawat,  a  tribe  of  North  American  Indians  living  on  lower  Mad  River, 
California, 
a  Golden  Era,  July  1,  1860. 


THE  ARGUMENT  OF  LURLINE  321 

Trip  lightly,  trip  lightly,  just  out  of  the  town, 
Then  canter  and  canter,  o'er  upland  and  down, 
Then  trot,  pony,  trot,  over  upland  and  hill, 
Then  gallop,  boy,  gallop,  and  galloping  still, 
Till  the  ring  of  each  horse-hoof,  as  forward  ye  press, 
Is  lost  in  the  track  of  the  Pony  Express. 

By  marshes  and  meadow,  by  river  and  lake, 

By  upland  and  lowland,  by  forest  and  brake, 

By  dell  and  by  canon,  by  bog  and  by  fen, 

By  dingle  and  hollow,  by  cliff  and  by  glen, 

By  prairie  and  desert,  and  vast  wilderness, 

At  morn,  noon,  and  evening,  God  speed  the  Express. 


THE  ARGUMENT   OE  LURLINE  * 

Air :  "  The  Tall  Young  Oysterman  " 

COUNT  RUDOLPH  was  a  noble  gent,  as  lived  upon  the  Rhine, 
Who  spent  his  money  very  free  in  Lager  Beer  and  Wine ; 
The  Baron  Truenfels,  likewise,  was  neighbor  of  the  same, 
Which  had  a  rather  uppish  girl — G.  Truenfels  by  name. 

Rudolph  would  wed  Miss  Truenfels,  but  was  n't  it  a  go  ? 
Each  thought  that  t'other  had  the  tin  (you  know  how  lovers 

blow), 
But  when  old  T.  says,  "Pungle  down,"  Count  Rudolph  he 

says,  "  Stuff; 
I  've  youth  and  rank,  that 's  more  than  gold  "  j  says  G.,  "  It 

ain't  enough. 

1  Wallace's  romantic  opera  of  "  Lurline  "  created  considerable  interest 
upon  its  appearance  at  Maguire's  Opera  House  in  San  Francisco,  in  No 
vember,  1860.  Bret  Harte's  night  at  the  opera  called  forth  the  foregoing 
ironical  "argument"  which  he  contributed  to  the  Golden  Era. 


322  THE   ARGUMENT  OF  LURLINE 

"  I  wants  a  diamond  thingamy  —  likewise  a  nice  trossoo, 
I  wants  a  kerridge  of  me  own,  and  so,  young  man,  adoo  " ; 
The  Baron  also  cuts  up  rough  —  but  Rudolph  is  content, 
And  merely  takes  a  stiffer  horn,  observing,  ' '  Let  her  went/' 

Now  just  before  this  jolly  row,  a  gal  they  called  Lurline 
Was  living  down  at  Lurlineburgh,  of  which  she  was  the 

Queen ; 

She  was  a  Lady  Dashaway  —  when  water  was  on  hand  — 
But  had  some  spirits  of  her  own  she  likewise  could  command. 

This  girl  close  by  a  whirlpool  sat  —  this  female  named 

Lurline  — 

And  played  with  most  exquisite  taste  upon  the  tamborine ; 
The  way  the  sailors  steered  into  them  whirlpools  was  a 

sin  — 
Young  men,  beware  of  sich  sirens  who  thus  take  fellers  in. 

Now  Count  Kudolph  was  wide  awake,  beyond  the  power  of 
suction ; 

Which  caused  Lurline  to  fall  in  love  and  seek  an  introduc 
tion. 

And  when  he 's  tight,  one  day,  she  slips  a  ring  upon  his 
finger ; 

And  thus  Count  Eudolph  is  bewitched  by  that  bewitching 
singer. 

Then  straightway  in  his  boat  he  jumps,  which  soon  begins 

to  sink, 

While  all  his  brave  com-pan-i-ons  are  yelling  on  the  brink, 
"  You  're  half-seas-over  now,  you  fool,  —  come  back,  you  '11 

surely  drown  "  ; 
Down  goes  the  gallant  German  gent,  a  whistling  "  Derry 

Down." 


THE   ARGUMENT   OF  LURLINE  323 

Down,  down  among  the   oyster-beds,  he   finds  the  sweet 

Lurline, 

A  cutting  such  a  heavy  swell  —  a  gorgeous  submarine  ; 
Her  father  Rhineberg  's  very  rich,   and  fellers  said,  who 

punned, 
"He  took  deposits  from  the  tars  and  kept  a  sinking  fund." 

Count  Rudolph  did  consent  to  stay  at  Rhineberg's  flash  hotel, 
And  half-made  up  his  mind  that  with  Lurline  he  'd  ever 

dwell; 

(t  I  'm  partial  to  the  water-cure  and  fond  of  clams,"  says  he, 
"  But  such  as  you,  Miss  Rhineberg,  are  a  subject  quite  per 

se." 

But  suddenly  he  hears  a  noise,  which  made  him  weaken 

some 
The  howling  of  his  friends  above  —  says  he,  "  I  must  go 

home, 
Good-bye,  Miss  R."     "  Hold  up !  "  says  she,  we  '11  do  the 

handsome  thing, 
Pa  gives  this  massy  chunk  of  gold.      You  keep  my  magic 

ring." 

So  Rudolph  takes  the  ring  and  gold,  and  comes  home  with 

a  rush, 

And  very  glad  his  neighbors  was  to  see  him  come  so  flush. 
And  even  old  Miss  Truenfels  to  welcome  him  began, 
And  says,  "I  always  thought  you  was  a  very  nice  young 


Likewise  she  says,  "  My  eye,"  and  makes  believe  to  faint 

away, 
And  sich-like  gammon.     But  the  Count  says,  "  Come,  now, 

that  won't  pay ! 


324  THE   ARGUMENT  OF  LURLINE 

I  loves  another  !  "     "  Cruel  man  !       That  ring  I  now  dis- 

kiver  — 
Say  whose  ?  "      "My  gal's! "     She  snatches  it  and  chucks 

it  in  the  river. 

Now  one  of  Lurline's  father's  help  had  caught  the  ring  and 

ran 
To  her  and  says,  "You  see  what  comes  of  loving  that  young 

man." 
Poor  Lurline  feels  somewhat  cut  up  —  and  to  assuage  her 

pain 
She  takes  her  father's  oyster  sloop  and  comes  ashore  again. 

'T  was  lucky  that  she  did  come  up,  for  Rudolph's  friends 
were  bent 

On  sharing  Rudolph's  golden  store,  without  Rudolph's  con 
sent  ; 

And  him  they  would  assassinate,  but  Lurline  she  says, 
"Hold!" 

And  waves  a  wand  until  they  stand  like  statoos,  stiff  and 
cold. 

They  stood  like  statoos  on  the  bridge  —  it  was  a  bridge  of 
sighs ; 

For  straightway  most  unpleasantly  the  tide  began  to  rise ; 

It  rose,  but  when  the  river  swept  away  the  bridge  at  last, 

They  found,  although  the  tide  was  flood,  their  chances  ebb 
ing  fast. 

It  rose  until  the  wicked  all  had  found  a  watery  grave  — 
And  then  it  sank  and  left  Rudolph  and  neighbors  in  a  cave. 
Rudolph  then  marries  Miss  Lurline  ;  is  happy,  rich,  and 

able 
To  take  the  lowest  bid  to  lay  the  next  Atlantic  Cable. 


THE  YERBA  BUENA  325 

THE   YERBA   BUENA1 

WHEN  from  the  distant  lands,  and  burning  South, 
Came  Junipero  —  through  the  plains  of  drouth,  — 
Bringing  God's  promise  by  the  word  of  mouth, 

With  blistered  feet  and  fever-stricken  brain, 
He  sank  one  night  upon  the  arid  plain, — 
If  God  so  willed  it  —  not  to  rise  again ; 

A  heathen  convert  stood  in  wonder  by  ; 
"If  God  is  God—  the  Father  shall  not  die," 
He  said.     The  dying  priest  made  no  reply. 

"  This  in  His  name  !  "  the  savage  cried,  and  drew 
From  the  parched  brook  an  herb  that  thereby  grew, 
And  rubbed  its  leaves  his  dusky  fingers  through ; 

Then  with  the  bruised  stalks  he  bound  straightway 
The  Padre's  feet  and  temples  where  he  lay, 
And  sat  him  down  in  faith,  to  wait  till  day ; 

When  rose  the  Padre  —  as  the  dead  may  rise  — 
Reading  the  story  in  the  convert's  eyes, 
"A  miracle!  God's  herb"  — the  savage  cries. 

'*  Not  so,"  replies  the  ever  humble  priest ; 
"  God's  loving  goodness  showeth  in  the  least, 
Not  God's  but  good  be  known  the  herb  thou  seest ! " 

Then  rising  up  he  wandered  forth  alone ; 
And  ever  since,  where'er  its  seed  be  sown, 
As  Yerba  Buena  is  the  good  herb  known. 
1  Golden  Era,  April  5,  1863. 


326  TREASURER   A — Y 

TREASURER  A Y1 

Air :    "A  Frog  He  would  A-wooing  Go  " 

OUR  A y  would  a-brokering  go, 

Heigh  ho,  for  A y  ! 

Whether  the  people  would  let  him  or  no, 
Whether  they  fancied  his  practices  low, 
Or  the  economical-comical  show 

Of  their  State  Treasurer  A y. 

The  Federal  tax  he  collected  in  gold, 

Heigh  ho,  for  A y, 

But  straightway  the  coin  and  the  taxpayers  sold, 
By  buying  up  Treasury  notes,  so  we  ?re  told, 
At  a  nice  little  discount  —     0,  that  was  a  bold 

Speculation  of  Treasurer  A y's. 

Let  poor  Uncle  Samuel  do  what  he  may, 

Heigh  ho,  for  A y. 

What  does  he  care  what  the  newspapers  say  ? 
Let  Volunteers  starve  upon  half  of  their  pay, 
Lord  bless  us  —  it 's  the  economical  way 

Of  great  State  Treasurer  A y. 

What  shall  we  do  with  our  great  financier  ? 

Heigh  ho,  for  A y. 

He  's  rather  expensive  to  keep  by  the  year, 
As  a  business  transaction  't  is  certainly  clear 
To  get  ourselves  rid  of  him  no  discount 's  dear, 

That  exchanges  State  Treasurer  A y. 

1  State  Treasurer  Ashley,  of  California,  in  1863  paid  the  State's  tax  to 
the  Government  in  legal  tender  notes.  Gold,  of  course,  at  this  time  was 
at  a  premium,  and  Ashley  had  received  this  Federal  tax  in  gold.  The 
press  severely  criticized  him  for  the  transaction,  and  upon  an  attempt  to 
repeat  the  offense  the  notes  were  refused  by  the  United  States  Treasurer. 


COLENSO  RHYMES  FOR  ORTHODOX   CHILDREN       327 


COLENSO  RHYMES  FOE  ORTHODOX  CHILDREN1 

A  SMART  man  was  Bishop  Colenso  — 

7T  were  better  he  never  had  been  so  — 

He  said,  "  A  queer  book 

Is  that  same  Pentateuch !  " 

Said  the  clergy,   "  You  mus  n't  tell  men  so." 

There  once  was  a  Bishop  of  Natal 

Who  made  this  admission  most  fatal ; 

He  said  :   "  Between  us 

I  fear  Exodus 

Is  a  pretty  tough  yarn  for  Port  Natal." 

Shall  I  believe  that  Noah's  Ark 

Rode  on  the  waters  blue  ? 
Or  must  I,  with  Colenso,  say 

The  story  is  untrue  ? 

What  then  becomes  of  all  my  joys  — 

That  ark  I  loved  so  well  — 
Those  tigers  —  dear  to  little  boys  — 

Shall  they  this  error  swell  ? 

There  once  was  a  Bishop,  and  what  do  you  think ! 
He  talked  with  a  Zulu,  who  says  with  a  wink, 
"  Folks  say  that  the  Pentateuch 's  true.  —  I  deny  it." 
And  never  since  then  has  this  Bishop  been  quiet. 

l  Golden  Era,  June  14,  1863. 


328  POEM 


POEM1 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  PATRIOTIC  EXERCISES  IN  THE  METRO 
POLITAN   THEATRE,    SAN    FRANCISCO,    JULY  4,  1863. 

(Written  for  the  event  by  the  poet  of  the  day,  Bret  Harte,  and  read  by 
the  Reverend  Thomas  Starr  King.) 

IT  's  hard,  on  Independence  Day,  to  find,   with  Thomas 

Moore, 
Your  "  Minstrel  boy,"  his  harp  and  song  has  taken  to  the 

war  — 

To  ask  some  sober  citizen  to  seize  the  passing  time 
And  turn  from  scanning  t(  silver  feet "  to  cesuras  of  rhyme  ! 

But  then  we  need  no  poet's  aid  to  lift  our  eyes  and  look 
Beyond  our  Ledger's  narrow  rim,  and  post  the  nation's 

book  — 
To  strike  our  country's  balance-sheet,  nor  shrink  in  foolish 

pride 
Because  the  ink  is  black  that  brings  a  balance  to  our  side ! 

We've  names  enough  of  rhythmic  swell  our  halting  verse 
to  fill, 

There 's  Bennington,  and  Concord  Bridge,  and  Breed's  or 
Bunker's  Hill ; 

There 's  Lexington  and  Valley  Forge  —  whose  anvils'  ring 
ing  peal, 

Beat  out  on  dreary  winter  nights  the  Continental  steel ! 

There 's  Yorktown,  Trenton,  Stony  Point,  King's  Mill  and 

Brandywine 

To  end  —  in  lieu  of  rebel's  necks  —  some  patriotic  line  ; 
1  Golden  Era,  July  5,  1863. 


POEM  329 

There  's  Saratoga  —  Monmouth  too  —  who  can  our  limit  fix  ? 
Enough  —  the  total  added  up  is  known  as  Seventy-Six ! 

With  themes  like  these  to  flush  the  cheek,  and  bid  the 

pulses  play 

Amidst  the  glories  of  the  Past,  we  gather  here  to-day  — 
The  twig  our  Fathers  planted  then  has  grown  a  spreading 

tree, 
Whose  branches  sift  their  blossoms  white,  to-day,  on  either 

sea! 
We  've  grown  too  large,  some  people  think  —  our  neighbor, 

'cross  the  way  — 
Suggests  Division,  though  — just  now —  substraction  's  more 

his  way  — 

(But  he  's  a  Diplomatic  friend  we  neither  seek  nor  fear, 
Who  gives  the  North  his  public  voice  —  the  South  his 

privateer !) 

No,  no,  we  stand  alone  to-day,  as  when,  one  fierce  July, 
The  sinking  lion  saw  new  stars  flash  from  the  western  sky  — 
To-day,  old  vows  our  hearts  renew  —  these  throes  that  shake 

the  Earth 
Are  but  the  pangs  that  usher  in  the  Nation's  newer  birth ! 

God  keep  us  all  —  defend  the  right  —  draw  nearer  while  we 

sing 
The  song  our  country  asks  to-day,  till  hills  and  valleys 

ring; 

(But  first  we  '11  draw  our  metre's  rein  e'er  we  again  begin, 
As  soldiers  from  their  battle  front  when  ranks  are  closing  in.) 

(The  Song) 

0,  God  of  our  country  —  if  silent  we  come, 
With  wreaths  that  are  old  to  thy  altar  to-day ; 


330  POEM 

?T  is  but  that  elsewhere,  to  the  beat  of  thy  drum, 
Our  love  pours  its  roses  far  redder  than  they ! 

If  the  ring  of  our  silver  and  gold  be  untrue, 
And  chimes  no  accord  to  the  clash  of  thy  steel ; 

It  changes,  dissolving,  to  fall  like  the  dew, 
In  silence  to  strengthen  —  in  mercy  to  heal ! 

Shall  the  ties  that  we  love  by  false  hands  be  unbound  ? 

Shall  we  turn  away  when  our  brothers  appeal 
To  the  youngest  of  all  —  who,  like  Benjamin,  found 

The  silver  cup  hid  in  his  measure  of  meal  ? 

No,  Lord,  we  are  one  —  we  must  come  to  thy  door, 

As  martyrs,  together  —  together  as  free ; 
Though  the  tempest  that  lashes  the  rough  Plymouth  shore 

Shall  mingle  its  spray  with  the  calm  Western  sea ! 

Far  better  the  tempest  than  yon  lurid  glow 

That  lights,  while  it  mocks,  the  deep  gloom  of  the  sky  — 
Far  better  the  lightning  that  smites  with  one  blow, 

Than  the  Copperhead's  crest  as  uplifted  on  high ! 

Let  the  foe  tempt  our  youth  in  his  treacherous  haste, 
Our  blades  shall  defend  the  bright  colors  we  bear ; 

As  our  Cactus  protects  in  the  desolate  waste, 
The  one  tint  of  Eden  that  God  has  left  there ! 

Then  one  ringing  cheer  for  the  deed  and  the  day  — 
One  smile  for  the  present — one  tear  for  the  past; 

Lord !  lend  us  thine  ear  when  thy  servants  shall  pray, 
Our  future  may  show  how  thy  mercies  still  last ! 


SOUTH   PARK  331 

SOUTH   PARK1 

(SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA,  1864) 
(After  Gray) 

THE  foundry  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 

The  weary  clerk  goes  slowly  home  to  tea, 
The  North  Beach  car  rolls  onward  to  the  bay, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  solitude  and  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  through  the  Park  a  solemn  hush  prevails, 

Save,  in  the  distance,  where  some  school-boy  wight 
Battles  his  hoop-stick  on  the  iron  rails ; 

Save,  that  from  yonder  jealous-guarded  basement 
Some  servant-maid  vehement  doth  complain, 

Of  wicked  youths  who,  playing  near  her  casement, 
Project  their  footballs  through  her  window-pane. 

Can  midnight  lark  or  animated  "  bust " 

To  these  grave  scenes  bring  mirth  without  alloy  ? 

Can  shrill  street-boys  proclaim  their  vocal  trust 
In  John,  whose  homeward  march  produces  joy  ? 

Alas  !  for  them  no  organ-grinders  play, 

Nor  sportive  monkey  move  their  blinds  genteel ; 

Approach  and  read,  if  thou  canst  read,  the  lay, 

Which  these  grave  dwellings  through  their  stones  reveal : 

"  Here  rests  his  fame,  within  yon  ring  of  earth, 

A  soul  who  strove  to  benefit  mankind  — 
Of  private  fortune  and  of  public  worth, 

His  trade  —  first  man,  then  sugar  he  refined, 
l  Californian,  September  24,  1864. 


332  THE   PLAZA 

"  Large  was  his  bounty,  and  he  made  his  mark ; 

Bead  here  his  record  free  from  stains  or  blots: 
He  gave  the  public  all  he  had  —  his  Park ; 

He  sold  the  public  —  all  he  asked  —  his  lots  !  " 


THE   PLAZA1 

(SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA,  1864) 
(After  Sir  Walter  Scott) 

IF  thou  wouldst  view  the  Plaza  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Show  that  the  fountain  does  not  play. 

When  the  broken  benches  are  hid  in  shade, 

With  many  a  vagrant  recumbent  laid ; 

When  the  clock  on  the  Monumental  tower 

Tolls  to  the  night  the  passing  hour ; 

When  cabman  and  hackman  alternately 

Entreat  and  threaten — indulging  free 

In  coarse  yet  forcible  imagery ; 

When  the  scrolls  that  show  thee  the  playhouse 

nigh, 

In  monstrous  letters  do  feign  and  lie, 
Of  "  Fun  divest  of  Vulgarity"  ; 
When  Bella  Union  is  heard  to  rave 
0  7er  the  last  conundrum  the  minstrel  gave ; 
When  the  street-boy  pauses  —  intent  upon 
The  band  at  Gilbert's  Melodeon — 
Then  go — but  go  alone  the  while, 
And  view  John  Bensley's  ruined  pile, 
And,  home  returning  —  do  not  swear 
If  thou  hast  seen  some  things  more  fair, 
l  Calif ornian,  October  8, 1864. 


THE  FIRST  BROOM  RANGER  333 

THE   FIKST   BROOM   RAWER1 

AN  OLD  STORY  WITH  A  NEW  MORAL 

ONCE  upon  the  Cornish  strand 
Rose  a  tide  so  vast  and  brimming, 

That  it  overflowed  the  land, 

And  the  hamlet  set  a-swimming. 

Every  cellar  was  submerged, 

Yet  the  tide  kept  slowly  swelling 

Till  the  waters  broke  and  surged 
O  'er  the  threshold  of  each  dwelling. 

Then  it  was  an  ancient  crone 

•  (True  to  what  tradition  taught  her) 
Seized  her  broom,  and,  all  alone, 
Set  to  sweeping  out  the  water. 

Through  that  ancient  female's  room 
Rolled  the  mighty  ocean  past  her  — 

Still  the  old  girl  with  her  broom 
Only  worked  and  swept  the  faster. 

When  the  people  gathered  round 
And  in  fear  and  terror  sought  her, 

All  of  that  poor  dame  they  found 
Was  her  BROOM  upon  the  water. 

Only  with  her  latest  breath 

Had  she  ceased  her  work  gigantic : 

Fairly,  squarely  met  her  death, 
Sweeping  out  the  vast  Atlantic. 

1  [Part  of  the  George  B.  McClellan  torchlight  procession  in  San  Francisco, 
October  11,  1864,  consisted  of  nearly  a  thousand  men  carrying  brooms, 
called  "Broom  Rangers."  They  were  sympathizers  with  "McClellan  in 
his  campaign  for  President  against  Abraham  Lincoln.] 


334  ANSWERING  THE  BELL 


ANSWERING   THE   BELL  * 

A   STORY    OF    THE    LATE    EARTHQUAKE    (SAN    FRANCISCO, 
SUNDAY,    OCTOBER  8,  1865) 

AT  Number  Four,  had  Dennis  More 

A  decent  situation — 
A  Celtic  youth,  who  showed,  in  truth, 

But  little  cultivation, 
And  "  wore  the  green  "  — the  kind,  I  mean, 

Not  reached  by  legislation. 

His  knowledge  did  not  go  beyond 

The  doorbell  he  attended, 
The  boots  he  blacked  —  the  services 

On  which  his  place  depended ; 
Yet  with  his  humble  duties  he 

A  certain  zeal  had  blended. 

One  Sunday  morn  —  the  folks  were  all 
At  church,  and  no  doubt  sleeping, 

While  Dennis  More  at  Number  Four 
His  household  watch  was  keeping  — 

When  all  at  once  there  came  a  ring 
That  set  his  pulses  leaping. 

He  started  to  his  feet,  but  ere 

He  took  erect  position, 
A  certain  trembling  in  his  knees 

Betrayed  their  weak  condition ; 
And  looking  round,  poor  Dennis  found 

This  fearful  exhibition : 

1  Californian,  October  14,  1865. 


ANSWERING  THE  BELL  335 

The  kitchen  clock  that  ere  the  shock 

The  time  of  day  was  showing, 
Had  stopped  its  pendulum,  although 

The  clock  itself  was  going ; 
It  fell  —  he  thought  the  End  of  Time 

Had  come  with  no  man's  knowing. 

The  tumblers  tumbled  on  the  shelves, 

Moved  by  mysterious  forces, 
The  plates  were  shifted  as  they  are 

In  dinners  of  twelve  courses ; 
And  knives  went  racing  for  the  plate, 

Just  like  St.  Leger  horses. 

But  high  above  the  general  crash 

He  heard  the  doorbell  ringing, 
And  staggering  to  his  feet  he  reached 

The  hall  where  he  saw  swinging 
The  study  door,  and  down  before 

Its  bookshelves  he  fell,  clinging. 

One  hurried  glance  he  gave  —  enough 

For  fatal  confirmation  — 
The  very  globe  upon  its  stand 

Still  rocked  to  its  foundation, 
And  all  the  standard  volumes  seemed 

In  active  circulation. 

The  fearful  thrill,  continuing  still, 
Had  loosed  "  The  Stones  of  Venice," 

The  law-books  just  above  his  head 
Ejectment  seemed  to  menace  — 

Till  down  fell  "  Coke  on  Littleton," 
Followed  by  "  Kent  "  on  Dennis ! 


336  ANSWERING  THE  BELL 

The  very  poets  were  disturbed  — 

The  mild  and  peaceful  Lakers, 
As  though  they  'd  caught  from  "  Aspen  Court " 

Some  power  that  made  them  Shakers ; 
Or,  that  the  "  Life  of  William  Penn  " 

Had  turned  them  all  to  Quakers. 

The  "Testimony  of  the  Rocks," 

In  rocking,  was  appalling  — 
Thermometer  and  weather-glass 

Both  side  by  side  were  falling; 
Yet  'midst  the  jar  —  a  Leyden  jar  — 

He  heard  the  doorbell  calling. 

Half  dead,  he  reached  the  hall  again,  — 
Sometimes  on  all-fours  creeping,  — 

Wide  swung  the  parlor's  creaking  door, 
And,  through  the  portals  peeping, 

He  saw  a  Turkish  ottoman 

Like  some  wild  dervish  leaping ; 

Four  high-backed  chairs  that  waltzed  in  pairs, 

Two  easy -chairs  coquetting ; 
And  —  like  some  dowager  that  found 

A  partner  hard  of  getting  — 
The  piano  against  the  wall 

Was  right  and  left  foot  poussetting. 

Yet,  spite  of  giddy  sights  and  scenes 

Of  books  and  portraits  reeling, 
To  Dennis'  brain  one  thing  was  plain  — 

The  doorbell  still  was  pealing  ; 
He  seized  the  knob  expectant  of 

Some  frightful  form  revealing  ! 


MIDSUMMER  337 

The  hinges  swung  —  the  door  was  flung 

Wide  open,  but  no  spying 
Disclosed  the  hand  that  rung  the  bell, 

Nor  any  body  trying, 
Save  that  a  pale-faced  man  stood  near, 

The  walls  intently  eyeing. 

One  bound  gave  Dennis  to  the  ground 

And  seized  the  rash  spectator  — 
With  wicked  fingers  round  his  throat 

He  clutched  his  respirator  : 
"  Is  thim  your  Sunday  thricks  ?  "  he  cried, 
«  Ye  haythen  agitator  !  " 

"  The  earthquake  !  "  gasped  the  wretch.  With  scorn 

Bold  Dennis  drew  his  brows  down ; 
"  The  airthquake,  is  it  ?  "     Then  he  gave 

A  forcible  but  coarse  noun  — 
"  And  that 's  the  wake  excuse  ye  M  give 

For  ringing  master's  house  down  !  " 


MIDSUMMER  * 

A    SAN    FRANCISCO    MADRIGAL 

"  The  air 

Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  several  senses." 

Macbeth. 

Now  Cancer  holds  the  fiery  sun, 
And  Sirius  flames  in  yonder  skies, 

Midsummer's  languid  reign 's  begun  — 
Arise,  my  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 

Come  forth  ere  evening's  shadows  fall- 

But,  dearest,  don't  forget  thy  shawl. 
1  Calif ornian,  July  21,  1866. 


338  MIDSUMMER 

For  why,  methinks  these  zephyrs  bland 
Are  brisk  and  jocund  in  their  play. 

These  tears,  thou  may'st  not  understand, 
Spring  but  from  joy  at  such  a  day  ; 

And,  dearest,  what  thou  deem'st  a  frown 

Is  but  to  keep  my  beaver  down. 

Now  generous  Nature  kindly  sifts 
Her  blessings  free  from  liberal  hand : 

How  varied  are  her  graceful  gifts ; 

How  soft  —  (yes,  dearest,  that  was  sand, 

A  trifle  —  and  by  Nature  thrown 

O'er  this  fresh  signature  —  her  own !) 

Here  let  us  sit  and  watch,  till  morn, 
The  fleecy  fog  that  creeps  afar, 

And,  like  a  poultice,  soothes  the  torn 
And  wind-bruised  face  of  cliff  and  scar ; 

Nor  fear  no  chill  from  damp  nor  dew, 

Nor  —  (really  !  bless  my  soul  —  a-tschu !  ) 

A  sneeze  —  't  is  nothing  —  what  of  that  ? 

Or  if  I  choose,  in  youthful  guise, 
To  chase  this  lightly  flying  hat, 

Instead  of  painted  butterflies  — 
'T  is  but  the  latitude,  you  know, 
The  season  gives  —  well,  well,  we  '11  go. 

And  when  once  more  within  our  cot, 
Where  sweetly  streams  the  fragrant  tea, 

And  buttered  muffins  crisp  and  hot, 
Their  welcome  spread  for  you  and  me  ; 

Then,  love,  by  fires  that  glitter  bright, 

We  '11  sing  Midsummer's  soft  delight. 


POEM  339 

POEM1 

DELIVERED  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  LAYING  OF  THE 
CORNER-STONE  OF  THE  CALIFORNIA  DEAF,  DUMB,  AND 
BLIND  ASYLUM,  SEPTEMBER  26,  1867 

Written  for  this  event  by  Bret  Harte  and  read  by  John  Swett 

FAIR  the  terrace  that  o'erlooks 
Curving  bay  and  sheltered  nooks ; 
Groves  that  break  the  western  blasts, 
Steepled  distance  fringed  with  masts, 
And  the  gate  that  fronts  our  home 
With  its  bars  of  cold  sea-foam. 

Here  no  flashing  signal  falls 

Over  darkened  sea  and  sail ; 
Here  no  ruddy  lighthouse  calls 

White- winged  Commerce  with  its  hail ; 

But  above  the  peaceful  vale 

Watchful,  silent,  calm  and  pale, 
Science  lifts  her  beacon  walls. 

Love,  alone,  the  lamp  whose  beam 
Shines  above  the  troubled  stream ; 
Here  shall  patience,  wise  and  sweet, 
Gather  round  her  waiting  feet 
God's  unfinished  few,  whom  fate 
And  their  failings  consecrate  ; 
Haply  that  her  skill  create 
What  His  will  left  incomplete. 

Ah,  Bethsaida's  pool  no  more 
Sees  the  miracles  of  yore ; 

i  Californian,  September  28,  1867. 


340  PORT  ALA'S  CROSS 

Faith  no  more  to  blinded  eyes 
Brings  the  light  that  skill  denies ; 
Not  again  shall  part  on  earth 
Lips  that  Nature  sealed  from  birth. 
Though  His  face  the  Master  hides, 
Love  eternal  still  abides 

Underneath  the  arching  sky, 
And  his  hand  through  Science  guides 

Speechless  lip  and  sightless  eye. 

This  is  our  Bethsaida's  pool, 

This  our  thaumaturgic  school ; 

We,  0  Lord,  more  dumb  than  these  — 

Knowing  but  of  bended  knees 

And  the  sign  of  clasped  hands  — 

Here  upon  our  western  sands, 

By  these  broad  Pacific  seas, 
Through  these  stones  are  eloquent, 

And  our  feeble,  faltering  speech 
Gains  what  once  the  pebbles  lent 

On  the  legendary  beach 

Unto  old  Demosthenes. 


PORT  ALA'S  CROSS1 

Pious  Portala,  journeying  by  land, 

Reared  high  a  cross  upon  the  heathen  strand, 

Then  far  away 
Dragged  his  slow  caravan  to  Monterey. 

The  mountains  whispered  to  the  valleys,  "  Good !  " 
The  sun,  slow  sinking  in  the  western  flood, 

Baptized  in  blood 

The  holy  standard  of  the  Brotherhood, 
l  Overland  Monthly,  August,  1869. 


PORTALA'S  CROSS  341 

The  timid  fog  crept  in  across  the  sea, 

Drew  near,  embraced  it,  and  streamed  far  and  free, 

Saying :  "  0  ye 
Gentiles  and  Heathen,  this  is  truly  He ! " 

All  this  the  Heathen  saw ;  and  when  once  more 
The  holy  Fathers  touched  the  lonely  shore  — 

Then -covered  o'er 
With  shells  and  gifts  —  the  cross  their  witness  bore. 


CIVIL  WAR  POEMS 

1862-1865 


A  VOLUNTEER  STOCKING1 

WITH  fingers  thoroughbred,  rosy  and  fair, 

She  was  knitting  a  stocking  for  soldiers  to  wear. 

But  I  thought,  as  through  intricate  loop  and  braid 
Those  fingers  so  willfully  flashed  and  played, 
Not  alone  did  they  catch  in  their  weaving  play 
A  woolen  thread  nor  a  filament  gray, 
But  some  subtler  fancies  —  as  maidens  best  know 
Were  knit  in  that  stocking  from  heel  to  toe. 

Those  sweet,  tangled  fancies,  that  women  so  long 
Have  cherished  in  sorrow,  oppression,  and  wrong ; 
Those  poetic  impulses,  waiting  the  warm 
Grasp  of  Faith  bui  to  shapen  and  give  them  a  form. 
Thus  Valor  and  Trust,  from  a  chaos  so  full, 
Here  mixed  with  the  gathering  meshes  of  wool, 
{    To  be  marshaled  more  firm,  as  with  resolute  chin 
1   And  half-pouting  lip  she  knit  them  all  in, 
Till  the  flash  of  the  needle's  leaping  light 
Gleamed  like  those  lances,  when  knight  to  knight, 
In  the  olden  joust  of  Chivalry's  might 
(Thought  I),  did  battle  for  Love  and  Eight. 

So  she  sate,  with  a  drooping  head, 

Knitting,  —  but  not  with  a  single  thread, 

Till  under  the  long  lash  something  grew 
Misty  and  faint  as  the  mountain's  blue, 
Then  dropped  — 

Like  a  flash  it  was  gone 
Caught  and  absorbed  in  the  woven  yarn, 
1  Golden  Era,  July  20,  1862. 


346  THE  CONSERVATIVE   BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS 

A  tear,  — just  to  show  that  the  stocking  was  done, 
And  Pity  had  finished  what  Trust  had  begun. 


THE  CONSERVATIVE   BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS1 

(After  Hood) 

TREAT  her  with  strategy, 
Touch  her  with  care, 
Nor  with  rash  energy 
Harm  one  so  fair  ! 

Respect  her  sentiments, 
So  truly  eloquent, 
While  still  consistently 
Drips  from  her  clothing 
Loyal  blood  —  Look  at  it, 
Loving  not  loathing. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny ; 
Rash  and  undutiful, 
Past  all  dishonor, 
BLIGHT  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still  for  these  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  ABE'S  family 
Wipe  those  pale  lips  of  hers, 
Spitting  so  clammily ; 
Bring  back  her  chattels, 
Her  fond  valued  chattels, 
Where'er  they  may  roam ; 
Hand-cuff  'em,  chain  'em,  and 
Send  'em  back  home, 
i  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  September  11,  1862. 


THE  CONSERVATIVE  BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS  347 

Seek  not  to  damage 
Her  own  institution ; 
Tenderly  put  back 
The  old  Constitution. 

Where  the  lights  quiver, 
So  far  down  the  river, 
For  many  a  night, 
In  ditches  and  trenches  — 
McClellan's  defenses  — 
The  conflict  commences, 
But  never  a  fight! 

Best  they  should  tarry  where 
Dreadful  malaria 
Racks  them  with  pain ; 
But  let  no  contraband 
Lend  them  a  helping  hand, 
If  you  ?ve  a  care  for 
The  Union  again. 

Perishing  gloomily ; 
Spurred  by  old  womanly, 
Feeble  loquacity, 
Weak  incapacity, 
Gone  to  its  rest. 
Still  pertinacity 
Says  it  is  best. 

Should  the  North  rigidly 
Stiffen  too  frigidly, 
Decently  —  kindly  — 
Smooth  and  compose  them, 
And  their  eyes  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly, 


348  BANKS   AND  THE   SLAVE   GIRL 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  that  glance  of  daring, 
The  soldier  despairing, 
Fixed  on  Futurity. 

Thus  with  such  strategy 
Still  the  South  spare, 
Nor  with  rash  energy 
Harm  one  so  fair. 

Owning  the  weakness 
Of  her  institution, 
And  saving  her  under 
The  old  Constitution. 


BANKS   AND  THE   SLAVE   GIEL1 

[General  N.  P.  Banks,  Major-General  of  Volunteers,  Union  Army, 
commanded  at  the  battle  of  Cedar  Mountain,  August  9,  1862.] 

THROUGH  shot  and  shell,  one  summer's  day, 

We  stood  the  "battle's  rack, 
With  gaping  files  and  shattered  ranks 

Our  men  were  falling  back; 
When  through  our  lines,  a  little  child 

Ran  down  the  bloody  track. 

To  know  if  she  were  bond  or  free 

We  had  no  time  to  spare, 
Or  scan  with  microscopic  eye 

The  texture  of  her  hair ; 
For  lo,  begrimed  with  battle  smoke, 

Our  men  looked  scarce  as  fair. 

1  Golden  Era,  October  26, 1862. 


THE   BATTLE   AUTUMN  349 

Her  name,  her  home,  her  master's  claim, 

We  could  not  then  decide, 
Until  our  Iron  Chief  rode  up 

Ere  we  could  cheer  or  chide, 
And  pointing  to  a  howitzer, 

He  grimly  bade  her  "ride." 

First  glancing  down  that  ghastly  lane, 

Where  dead  and  dying  lay, 
Then  back  at  us,  and  like  a  flash, 

We  saw  his  glances  say : 
"  The  child  is  free.     Their  batteries 

Have  opened  her  the  way !  " 

Perhaps  they  had  —  I  said  before 

We  could  not  then  decide ; 
For  we  were  sorely  pressed  that  day, 

And  driven  back  beside, 
And  mayhap  in  our  chieftain's  act, 

Some  moral  then  we  spied. 


THE   BATTLE   AUTUMN1 

THE  last  high  wain  of  toppling  sheaves 
Goes  by  —  the  farm  gate  swings  to  rest  j 

The  yellow  harvest,  and  the  leaves 

The  red  Fruit-Bearers'  lips  have  pressed, 
Lie  trophies  piled  on  Nature's  breast ! 

But  when  the  clouds  hang  dark  and  low, 
And  bird  and  bee  no  longer  roam  — 

And  long  before  the  pitying  snow 

To  bury  the  dead  leaves  shall  come  — 
We  '11  call  another  Harvest  Home ! 
1  Golden  Era,  November  23,  1862. 


350  SEMMES ! 

We  '11  call  that  Harvest,  last  and  best, 
The  Warrior-Beaper,  reaps  by  chance, 

The  broken  hope  —  the  shattered  crest  — 
The  nerveless  hand  —  the  quenched  glance 
That  heap  the  creeping  ambulance  ! 

Swing  wide  your  gates  —  the  car  rolls  on : 
0  Reaper,  are  your  spoils  like  these  ? 

Ah,  no !  when  dragon's  teeth  are  sown, 
The  incense  breath  of  patriot  fields 
O'ertops  the  languid  scents  of  Peace! 

Then  still  keep  keen  your  hooks  and  scythe, 
Ye  wielders  of  the  peaceful  flail, 

ThoJ  wintry  storms  the  tree-tops  writhe, 
And  scattered  leaves  ride  on  the  gale, 
Let  not  the  battle  harvest  fail. 


SEMMES!1 

[Captain  Raphael  Semmes,  the  noted  commander  of  the  Confederate 
privateer  Alabama,  on  the  7th  of  December,  1862,  captured  the  steamer 
Ariel  carrying  passengers  for  San  Francisco.  He  allowed  the  vessel  and 
passengers  to  proceed  unharmed,  but  compelled  the  captain  to  sign  a  bond 
to  pay  two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  dollars  thirty  days  after  the  inde 
pendence  of  the  Confederate  Government.  On  December  27,  the  passen 
gers  of  the  Ariel  held  a  meeting  in  San  Francisco  and  passed  a  vote  of 
thanks  for  Semmes's  gentlemanly  conduct  while  in  possession  of  the  ves- 
ML] 

CONFEDERATION 
Of  Free  spoliation 
With  Exaltation, 

I  sing  of  thee  ! 
And  of  thy  later, 
Sweet  Peculator, 
And  Depredator 

Of  every  sea. 
l  Golden  Era,  January  11,  1863. 


SEMMES  !  351 

When  all  abuse  thee 
And  dare  confuse  thee, 
I  '11  still  excuse  thee, 

Though  law  condemns 
Thy  occupation, 
This  plain  narration 
Bears  attestation 

Of  thee,  0  Semmes! 

What  legendary, 
Incendiary 
Accounts  that  vary 

Of  thee  were  told ; 
What  strange  tradition 
Of  man's  condition, 
Through  inanition 

Shut  in  thy  hold. 

Thy  motions  elfish, 

Thy  conduct  selfish, 

Like  that  strange  shell-fish 

Who  clouds  with  ink ; 
Yes,  like  the  Cuttle, 
I  hide  thy  subtle 
Attempts  to  scuttle 

Our  ships  and  sink. 

Thy  frequent  dashes, 
Thy  waxed  mustaches, 
Their  glory  flashes 

From  pole  to  pole ! 
The  British  Nation, 
At  every  station, 
Sends  invitation 

For  thee  to  coal. 


352  A  CAVALRY  SONG 

With  deprecation 
And  agitation, 
And  consternation, 

Lest  blood  be  spilt, 
I  view  thy  meeting, 
—  No  courteous  greeting  — 
Perchance  a  beating 

From  Vanderbilt ! 

Thy  kind  attention 
I  duly  mention, 
Though  comprehension 

Doth  strangely  show 
That  high-toned  breeding 
Tho'  strange  exceeding, 
We  find  proceeding 

From  men  termed  "Low. 

Then  let  us  praise  thee, 
And  still  upraise  thee, 
Until  we  place  thee 

Beyond  all  harm, 
In  exaltation  — 
A-e-rostation 
And  high  saltation, 
From  some  yardarm. 


A  CAVALRY   SONG1 

0,  POTENT  in  patriot  fields, 
Is  the  union  of  swiftness  and  force ; 

In  the  uplifted  steel, 

And  the  prick  of  the  heel, 
And  the  long  swinging  tramp  of  the  horse, 
i  Golden  Era,  January  18,  1863. 


THE  WRATH  OF  McDAWDLE  353 

0,  the  Infantry  make  a  brave  show, 
With  the  squares  that  no  foeman  dare  cross  ; 

But  their  long  files  go  down, 

When  the  rattling  hoofs  drown 
Their  roulade  with  the  tramp  of  the  horse. 

O,  the  Cannoneer's  lintstocks  are  bright, 
And  the  throats  of  their  engines  are  hoarse; 

But  their  thunder  is  dumb 

When  the  Cavalry  come, 
With  the  lightnings  that  leap  from  the  horse. 

Then,  up  in  the  stirrup  and  ride ! 
No  obstacles  checking  our  course, 

Till  the  continent's  length 

Is  filled  with  the  strength 
Of  the  charging  of  Liberty's  horse ! 


THE   WRATH   OF   McDAWDLE » 


A  CONSERVATIVE  LEGEND 

[General  George  B.  McClellan,  in  1862,  was  severely  criticized  for  his 
tardiness  and  hesitation.  It  was  claimed  that  he  was  over-cautious,  that 
he  spent  too  much  time  in  preparation,  and  thus  gave  the  enemy  the 
advantage  and  an  opportunity-  to  escape.] 

McDAWDLE  brooked  no  spoiler's  wrong, 
Famous  in  border  raid  and  song, 

But  hearing  the  tale  of  outrage  told, 

His  heart  waxed  hot  and  his  eye  grew  cold, 

And  said,  "Now,  by  my  ancestral  hall, 
This  day  shall  McDawdle's  vengeance  fall ! " 
1  Golden  Era,  January  25,  1863. 


354  THE   WRATH  OF  McDAWDLE 

So  he  bade  them  bring  him  his  barbed  steed, 
And  rode  from  his  castle  gate  with  speed. 

The  high  portcullis  he  paused  beside, 
And  said,  "  With  me  shall  a  Squire  ride 

"  With  a  fresher  lance,  lest  this  should  bend 
To  some  traitor's  breast — which  saints  forfend!" 

So  his  Squire  beside  him  armed  did  go, 
With  an  extra  lance  at  his  saddle-bow. 

But  when  the  heavy  drawbridge  dropped, 
McDawdle  tightened  his  rein  and  stopped, 

And  said,  "  Those  spared  in  the  fight,  I  wist, 
With  gyves  should  be  manacled  each  wrist." 

So  they  brought  him  gyves  and  again  he  sped 
While  his  henchmen  held  their  breath  with  dread. 

But  when  he  had  passed  the  castle  moat, 
He  checked  his  steed,  and  his  brow  he  smote, 

And  said:     "By'r  Lady,  methinks  'twere  well 
That  with  me  should  ride  a  priest  and  bell 

"  To  shrive  the  souls  of  the  men  I  slay, 
And  mine  own,  should  I  fall  in  this  deadly  fray." 

So  they  brought  him  a  priest  with  a  bell  and  book, 
And  again  the  earth  with  his  gallop  shook. 

When  he  reached  the  spot  where  the  caitiffs  lay, 
Lo,  the  coward  knaves  had  stolen  away, 


THE   COPPERHEAD   CONVENTION  355 

Taking  the  spoil  of  his  goodly  land, 
Dreading  the  might  of  his  strong  right  hand. 

'T  were  well  for  the  caitiff  knaves  that  they 
Had  wisely  gone  from  McDawdle's  way, 

Lest  he  fall  upon  them  with  certain  death; 
And  psalms  went  up  from  each  caitiff's  breath. 

And  psalms  went  up  from  McDawdle's  hall, 
When  they  saw  him  ride  to  the  outer  wall. 

And  the  bard  made  a  song  of  McDawdle's  wrath, 
And  this  is  the  song  which  that  minstrel  hath: 

Ye  bold  intent  doth  ye  deed  surpasse 
Of  ye  braggart  childe  with  ee  of  glasse." 


THE  COPPEKHEAD  CONVENTION1 

SACRAMENTO,    JULY    8,  1863 

THERE  were  footprints  of  blood  on  the  soil  of  the  Free  ; 
There  were  foes  in  the  land  where  no  f oeman  should  be ; 
There  were  fields  devastated  and  homesteads  in  flame; 
And  each  loyal  cheek  caught  the  hue  of  its  shame ; 
War's  roses  sprang  red  where  each  rebel  heel  set  — 
When,  lo  !  a  convention  of  Democrats  met ! 

And  how  did  they  sing  the  brave  song  of  their  clan  — 
Of  rights  that  were  equal  —  of  freedom  for  man  ?  " 
What  epithets  burned  through  their  pitiless  scorn 
Of  "governing  classes  that  masters  are  born  ?  " 
l  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  July  14,  1863. 


356  SCHALK 

What  epithets !  Listen,  ye  gods,  to  yon  mouth 
That  writhes,  as  it  whispers,  "  the  glorious  South  !  " 

But  came  they  in  peace  —  those  meek  lovers  of  Right, 

With  pistols  and  bowie-knives  tucked  out  of  sight, 

With  real  jars  of  oil  for  the  sore  Commonweal 

That  no  Ali-Baba  assassins  conceal  — 

Was  it  Peace  —  or  war  —  whose  fond  mercies  are  such 

As  pluck  the  weak  straw  from  a  drowning  man's  clutch  ? 

We  know  not  their  motives.     The  quick  ebbing  tide 
That  stranded  their  chieftain  left  them  at  his  side ; 
As  the  wave  that  retreats  from  the  Seventy-four 
Leaves  the  cockle-shells  groping  their  way  on  the  shore — 
So  their  knell  was  the  boom  of  the  welcoming  gun 
That  thundered  the  tidings  that  Vicksburg  was  won ! 


SCHALK!1 

[Emil  Schalk,  a  resident  of  the  United  States,  was  b«rn  at  Mayence, 
Germany,  1834,  and  educated  at  Paris.  He  wrote  Summary  of  the  Art  of 
War,  1862,  Campaigns  of  1862,  1863,  etc.] 

WHAT  do  our  successes  balk ! 
"  Want  of  simple  rules,"  says  Schalk, 
"Daily  I  am  shocked  to  see 

Utter  lack  of  strategy; 
.  While  the  skill  that  art  combines 

(Shown  in  my  interior  lines) 

And  success  that  ever  dwells 

In  all  perfect  parallels, 

Prove  to  me,  beyond  a  doubt, 

That  you  're  twisted  right  about, 

And  through  ignorance  of  art, 

Yours  is  the  defensive  part ; 
l  Golden  Era,  July  19,  1863. 


THE   YREKA   SERPENT  357 

Or,  to  make  my  sense  complete, 
In  advancing,  you  retreat. 
Don't  you  see  —  it 's  plain  as  day  — • 
That  thus  far  you  7ve  run  away, 
And  your  siege  of  New  Orleans 
Simply  was  defensive  means, 
While  your  Washington,  my  friend, 
You  must  conquer  to  defend  — 
Thus  your  whole  campaign  is  naught 
When  not  logically  fought !  " 

Eight  and  Might  at  times  prevail, 
Lines  and  figures  never  fail ! 
So  if  you  'd  your  battles  win  — 
And  would  properly  begin  — 
Choose  your  scientific  man, 
Fight  the  European  plan, 
And  to  stop  all  further  talk, 
Win  'em  by  the  longest  Schalk. 

THE  YREKA  SERPENT 

A    RHYTHMICAL    DIALOGUE1 

[Yreka,  July  15, 1863.  Two  men  in  coming  out  of  their  drift  on  Cotton- 
wood  Creek,  some  twenty  miles  from  here,  a  few  days  ago,  saw  on  the 
mountain-side  a  snake,  which  they  say  was  twenty-four  feet  long,  and  as 
large  around  as  a  man's  body.  They  went  toward  it,  when  it  ran  up  the 
mountain.  A  party  is  now  out  looking  for  the  snake.—  Telegram  in  city 
papers.} 

STRANGER 

0  EXCAVATOR  of  the  soil,  0  miner  bold  and  free ! 

Where  is  the  snake  —  the  fearful  snake —  that  late  appeared 

to  thee  ? 

Was  it  a  bona-fide  snake,  or  only  some  untruth 
Exploding  like  that  firework  so  popular  with  youth  ? 
i  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  July  25,  1863. 


358  THE  YREKA   SERPENT 

Was  it  a  real  Ophidian,  or  was  it  simply  nil, 
Of  mania  a  potu  born  —  Serpent  of  the  Still  ? 
Was  it  an  Anaconda  huge,  or  Boa  of  mighty  strength, 
Or  was  it  but  an  Adder  —  in  the  details  of  its  length  ? 

Was  it  a  Python  —  such  an  one  as  Pliny  says  for  lunch 

Would  take  a  Roman  Phalanx  down,  as  we  take  Roman 
punch  ? 

Or  was  it  that  more  modern  kind  that  Holmes'  page  dis 
plays, 

Whose  rattle  was  the  favored  toy  of  "  Elsie's  "  baby  days? 

What  manner  of  a  snake  was  it  ?     Speak,   0  mysterious 

man! 

Proclaim  the  species  of  the  snake  that  past  thy  tunnel  ran — 
Its  length,  its  breadth,  and  whence  it  came,  and  whither 

did  it  flee ; 
And  if  extant  on  Tellus  yet,  oh,  tell  us  where  it  be ! 

MINER 

0  stranger  in  the  glossy  hat,  and  eke  in  store-clothes  drest ! 
Thy  words  a  tunnel  deep  have  picked  within  this  flinty 

breast ; 

1  may  not  rightly  call  those  names  thou  dost  so  deftly 

term, 
But  this  I  know  —  I  never  yet  beheld  so  gross  a  worm ! 

My  tale  begins  upon  a  day  I  never  can  forget, 

The  very  time  those  Democrats  in  Sacramento  met  — 

A  July  day  —  the  heated  pines  their  fragrant  sap  distilled, 

When  tidings  of  a  victory  the  hills  and  valleys  thrilled. 

The  mountains  laughed  to  split  their  sides,  the  tunnels 

cracked  their  jaws ; 
The  fir  trees  rattled  down  their  cones  in  salvos  of  applause ; 


THE  YKEKA  SERPENT  359 

The  blue-jay  screamed  till  he  was  black  —  when  lo !  as  if  in 

pain, 
A  hideous  serpent  writhed  this  way  from  Sacramento's  plain. 

His  tail  was  pointed  to  the  South,  his  head  toward  the 

North, 

As  from  the  Sacramento's  bank  he  wriggled  slowly  forth ; 
But  when  upon  the  right  and  left  the  cheers  began  to  break, 
And  wider,  wider  spread  the  news  —  still  faster  flew  the 

snake ! 

He  reached  the  mountains  —  like  a  dream  he  passed  before 
my  eyes. 

0  stranger !  then  it  was  I  knew  the  secret  of  his  size, 
It  was  no  single  snake  I  saw ;  but  by  yon  blessed  sun ! 
These   eyes  beheld  two  serpents  joined  and  blended  into 

one. 

Two  heads  this  fearful  reptile  had;  one  pointed  to  the 
South; 

The  other  pointed  to  the  North,  a  hissing  tongue  and 
mouth ; 

But  that  which  pointed  to  the  South  was  like  a  turtle 
dove, 

And  dropped  from  time  to  time  a  text  of  universal  love. 

Its  Northern  head  three  sides  displayed,  and  on  the  first  of 
these 

1  read  the  legend  "Slavery,"  and  on  the  second  "Peace," 
And  on  the  third  —  oh,  fearful   sight !  —  these   eyes  did 

plainly  see, 
Deep  sunken  on  its  copper  front,  the  capitals  "  J.  D." 

The  snake  is  gone — the  tale  is  told  —  I  view  in  thy 
affright, 


360  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  TIMES 

0  stranger  with  the  troubled  brow !  thou  readst  the  tale 
aright ; 

This  serpent  of  protracted  length — this  awful  snake  of 
dread  — 

Was  of  the  same  convention  born  —  the  FUSION  COPPER 
HEAD. 


A  FABLE  FOE  THE  TIMES1 

I  LAY  on  my  back  in  the  scented  grass, 

Drowned  in  the  odors  that  swept  the  plain, 

Watching  the  reaper's  sickle  pass 

Like  summer  lightning  amidst  the  grain ; 

And  I  said,  "  'T  is  certain  that  Peace  is  sweet, 
And  War  is  cruel  and  useless  toil  — 

And  better  the  reaper  of  honest  wheat 

Than  the  soldier  laden  with  sanguine  spoil." 

But  lo,  as  I  spake,  in  the  upper  sky, 
I  heard  the  tumult  of  mimic  war, 

And  a  troop  of  swallows  came  whistling  by, 
In  chase  of  a  hawk  that  flew  before  — 

Till  with  baffled  wing  and  beaten  crest, 
That  gray  guerrilla  of  raid  and  wrong, 

Flew  off — and  back  to  each  ransomed  nest, 
The  heroes  came  in  exultant  song. 

But  one,  as  he  neared  me,  dropped  his  wing 
With  a  weak,  uncertain,  tremulous  beat, 

As  round  and  round  in  a  narrowing  ring, 
His  circuit  he  'd  double  and  then  repeat  — 
l  Golden  Era,  August  2,  1863. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE   AND  PETER   OF  THE   NORTH      361 

Till  at  length  he  dropped,  like  lead,  in  the  brake, 
And  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  but  found,  alas, 

He  was  charmed  by  a  meditative  snake 
That  lay  near  me  in  the  scented  grass. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  AND  PETER  OF  THE  NORTH1 

The  English  author,  Thomas  Carlyle,  must  have  his  say  upon  the  civil 
war  in  this  country.  It  is  very  brief,  and  appears  in  the  August  number 
of  Macmillan' 's  Magazine.  Here  it  is:  — 

"ILIA    AMERICANA    IN    NUCE " 

Peter  of  the  North  (to  Paul  of  the  South}. "  Paul, 

you  unaccountable  scoundrel,  I  find  you  hire  your  servants 
for  life,  not  by  the  month  or  year,  as  I  do !  You  are  going 
straight  to  hell,  you  —  !  " 

Paul.  —  " Good  words,  Peter !  The  risk  is  my  own;  I 
am  willing  to  take  the  risk.  Hire  your  servants  by  the 
month  or  day,  and  get  straight  to  Heaven,  leave  me  to  my 
own  method." 

Peter.  —  "  No,  I  won't.    I  will  beat  your  brains  out  first ! 
(And  is  trying  dreadfully  ever  since,  but  cannot  yet  man 
age  it.")  T  c> 
May,  1863. 


"  PETER    OP    THE    NORTH "    TO  THOMAS    CARLTLB 

IT  's  true  that  I  hire  my  servant  per  day, 
Per  month,  or  per  year  —  as  he  chooses ; 

While  "  Paul  of  the  South  "  takes  his  bondman  for  life, 
Without  asking  if  he  refuses, 

T.  C., 
Without  asking  if  he  refuses ! 

1  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  September  8,  1863. 


362       CALIFORNIA  TO  THE   SANITARY   COMMISSION 

But  if  you  are  judge  of  the  merits  alone, 

We  surely  have  right  to  inquire 
The  date  of  your  service  with  "Paul  of  the  South," 
And  what  is  the  length  of  your  hire, 

T.  C., 
And  what  is  the  length  of  your  hire ! 

F.  B.  H. 

CALIFORNIA  TO  THE  SANITAKY  COMMISSION1 

WITH  A  DRAFT  FOB  "  FIFTY  THOUSAND/'  DECEMBER,  1863 

THROUGHOUT  the  long  summer  our  hearts  shrank  in  doubt, 
As  sterile  and  parched  as  our  plains  with  the  drought, 
Till  your  voice  on  the  wings  of  the  winter's  first  rain 
Awoke  heart  and  meadow  to  bounty  again. 

'T  is  yours  in  its  freshness  —  the  first  gift  that  springs 
From  the  soil  overarched  by  these  merciful  wings, 
As  pure  and  less  cold  than  the  snowflake  that  flies 
Over  fields  that  are  crimson  with  War's  autumn  dyes. 

We  speak  not  of  Glory,  we  talk  not  of  Fame, 
We  gauge  not  our  bounty  to  honor  or  blame ; 
You  ride  with  the  battery  wrapped  in  the  dun  ; 
We  creep  with  the  ambulance  steadily  on. 

Yet  stay  but  a  moment.     Our  faith  is  the  same, 
Though  warmed  in  the  sunshine,  or  tried  in  the  flame ; 
Would  you  say  that  we  shrink,  while  your  courage  en 
dures  — 
That  we  offer  our  draft  as  an  exchange  for  yours  ? 

No,  perish  the  thought !  whether  sunshine  or  storm, 
Though  the  matrix  is  broken  that  moulded  our  form ; 
l  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco), December  19,  1863. 


SONG  OF  THE    "  CAMANCHE  "  363 

When  our  mills  shall  run  dry,  in  the  stamps  that  re 
main, 
That  Strength  which  bred  Mercy  shall  conquer  again ! 

SONG   OF   THE   "  CAMANCHE "  * 

[The  monitor  Camanche  from  New  York  arrived  at  San  Francisco  on 
the  ship  Aquila  in  November,  1863.  The  Aquila  with  her  cargo  sank  at  her 
dock  in  the  harbor  for  some  unknown  reason.  She  had  remained  there  for 
some  time  when  Bret  Harte  wrote  these  verses.  She  was  finally  raised, 
built,  and  launched.  Harte's  "A  Lay  of  the  Launch  "  gives  a  humorous 
account  of  his  presence  on  that  occasion.] 

O  STRANGER,  o'er  this  sunken  wreck 

Behold  no  risen  glory  ; 
No  fragments  of  a  battle-deck 

Invite  the  poet's  story; 
Fame  cannot  write  my  name  above 

With  Freedom's  fearless  fighters ; 
For  why  ?  this  little  lay  of  mine 

Belongs  to  Underwriters. 

You  tell  me  that  by  Sumter's  walls 

The  monitors  are  swinging, 
And  harmless  from  their  armor  falls 

The  thunderbolts  yet  ringing ; 
Yet,  peaceful  here  in  mud  I  lie 

Like  any  sailor  drunken, 
Dead  as  a  coffin-nail,  or  as 

—  My  rivet-heads-die-sunken ! 

You  say  the  pirate's  stealthy  prow 

This  way  is  slowly  turning, 
From  tropic  seas,  where  even  now 
Some  luckless  prize  is  burning. 
1  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  January  16,  1864. 


364  A  LAY   OF   THE   LAUNCH 

Above  them  gleams  the  Southern  Cross 
And  constellations  blinking, 

While  I  beneath  a  Northern  sky 
With  Aquila  am  sinking. 

0,  had  I  dropped  in  some  deep  well 

Of  ocean  vast  and  mighty, 
Old  Neptune  might  have  tolled  my  bell 

Along  with  Amphitrite ; 
Or  mermaids  from  their  coral  stores 

Have  decked  my  turret  gayly, 
Instead  of  filth  your  city  pours 

From  sewers  round  me  daily. 

Then,  stranger,  rather  let  me  hide 

Where  river  ooze  still  smothers, 
If  locked  in  my  disgrace  abide 

Some  meaner  faults  of  others ! 
Thou  hast  a  paper — tell  me  quick 

The  worst  —  though  nothing  worse  is 
1 7m  libeled  —  in  the  Circuit  Court, 

Thank  God !  —  and  not  in  verses. 


A   LAY   OF   THE  LAUNCH1 

(After  Tennyson) 

[On  November  14,  1864,  the  monitor  Camanche  was  successfully 
launched.  She  was  intended  as  a  formidable  addition  to  the  defenses  of 
the  harbor  of  San  Francisco.  Bret  Harte  was  one  of  the  invited  guests.] 

MY  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Camanche ; 

In  vain  I  strove  to  see  the  show, 

Camanche  ; 
1  Calif ornian,  November  19,  1864. 


A  LAY   OF  THE   LAUNCH  365 

Divorced  from  shore  —  from  libels  free  — 
I  came  to  view  thy  charms  per  se  ; 
It  was  no  maiden  plunge  to  thee, 

Camanche. 


I  did  not  see  thee  launched  at  all, 

Camanche ; 
The  crowd  was  large — the  gate  was  small, 

Camanche. 

I  stood  without  and  cursed  my  fate, 
The  time,  the  tide  that  would  not  wait, 
With  others  who  had  come  too  late, 

Camanche. 

Why  did  they  send  thee  off  so  soon, 

Camanche  ? 
They  should  have  waited  until  noon, 

Camanche. 

0  cruel  fate,  that  from  my  gaze 
Hid  wedges,  props,  and  "broken  stays, 
And  made  thy  ways  as  "  secret  ways, " 

Camanche. 

1  was  thine  own  invited  guest, 

Camanche ; 
I  missed  the  feast,  with  all  the  rest, 

Camanche. 

I  missed  the  cold  tongue,  and  the  flow 
Of  eloquence  and  Veuve  Clicquot ; 
I  missed  my  watch  and  chain,  also, 

Camanche. 

For  when  I  strove  to  reach  thy  deck, 

Camanche ; 


366  A  LAY  OF  THE  LAUNCH 

A  hand  was  passed  around  my  neck, 

Camanche ; 

A  false,  false  hand  my  beaver  pressed 
Upon  mine  eyes,  and  from  my  vest 
Unhooked  my  chain  —  why  tell  the  rest  ? 

Camanche. 


My  coat  was  torn  —  the  best  I  had, 

Camanche ; 
I  wished  I,  too,  were  ironclad, 

Camanche. 

They  tore  my  coat  and  vest  of  silk, 
They  groaned  and  cried,  "  a  bilk,  a  bilk !  " 
Kude  boys  and  others  of  that  ilk, 

Camanche. 

Thy  yard  was  full  of  stumbling  blocks, 

Camanche ; 

That  told  a  sudden  fall  in  stocks, 

Camanche. 

I  stood  where  late  thy  keel  had  slid  — 

I  did  not  heed  as  I  was  bid, 

Hence  what  thy  keel  had  done,  I  did, 

Camanche. 

It  was  a  bitter,  frightful  fall, 

Camanche ; 
I  slid  some  thirty  feet  in  all, 

Camanche. 

Some  thirty  feet  upon  my  back 
I  slipped  along  the  slimy  track  ; 
They  cried,  "  Another  launch  —  alack  !  " 

Camanche. 


THE   FLAG- STAFF  ON   SHACKLEFORD   ISLAND       367 

My  heart  was  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Camanche ; 
I  thought  that  I  would  homeward  go, 

Camanche. 

In  vain  I  hailed  a  crowded  car ; 
They  answered  not  my  signs  afar ; 
0  day,  cursed  by  my  evil  star, 

Camanche. 


THE  FLAG-STAFF  ON  SHACKLEFOKD  ISLAND1 

AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR 

[The  following  incident  was  related  in  a  recent  lecture  by  the  Rev.  A. 
L.  Stone,  Pastor,  Park  Street  Church,  Boston:  "In  the  early  part  of  the 
war  there  stood  on  Shackleford  Island,  North  Carolina,  a  high  flag-staff 
from  which  floated  the  national  banner.  Of  course,  the  secessionists  soon 
tors  this  down.  But  there  still  surmounted  the  staff  the  national  eagle. 
This  was  too  loyal  for  the  traitors,  and  after  a  time  they  succeeded  in  get- 
ing  it  down  or  breaking  it  off.  Their  work  was  hardly  finished,  when  lo! 
the  air  quivered  with  the  rush  of  lordly  wings,  and  a  majestic  eagle  swept 
down  and  lighted  on  the  staff.  In  a  few  minutes  the  marksmen  sent  bul 
let  after  bullet  at  the  ro)fal  mark.  In  vain.  His  piercing  eye  looked  at 
them  defiant;  he  rose,  circled  round  a  few  feet,  and  settled  again  on  his 
perch."] 

PIERCING  the  blue  of  a  southern  sky, 
On  Shackleford  Island  a  flagstaff  rose, 

And  a  flag  that  flew, 

Loyal  and  true, 
Over  the  heads  of  disloyal  foes. 

Fluttered  the  flag  in  the  breezy  air ; 
Sullen  they  gazed,  but  did  not  speak, 

Till  the  flap  of  each  fold, 

Like  a  buffet  bold, 

Crimsoned  with  shame  each  traitor's  cheek. 
1  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  May  3,  1864. 


368       THE  FLAG-STAFF  ON  SHACKLEFOKD  ISLAND 

"  Down  with  the  Abolition  rag  !  " 
Was  the  cry  their  hatred  found  at  last; 
And  they  tore  it  down 
And  over  the  town 
Trailed  the  flag  they  had  stripped  from  the  mast. 

"  Down  with  the  Eagle  —  the  Yankee  bird ; 
False  in  one  thing,  false  in  the  whole  " ; 

So  they  battered  down 

The  flag-staff's  crown  — 
The  Eagle  crest  of  the  liberty  pole. 

Lo !  as  it  dropped,  from  the  upper  air 
Came  the  rush  of  wings,  and  around  the  base 

Of  the  flag-staff  played 

A  circling  shade, 
And  the  real  bird  swooped  to  the  emblem's  place. 

Vainly,  below  from  the  angry  mob 
The  curse  and  the  rifle  shot  went  up. 

Not  a  feather  stirred 

Of  the  royal  bird 
In  his  lonely  perch  on  the  flag-staff  top. 

Since  that  day,  on  Shackleford  Isle, 
Clothed  in  beauty  the  staff  is  set ; 

Since  that  day 

The  bird  alway 
Guards  the  spot  that  is  sacred  yet. 

So,  when  the  Nation's  symbols  lie 
Broken,  we  look  through  our  despair 

To  the  sky  that  brings 

The  rush  of  wings 
And  the  Truth  that  dwells  in  the  upper  air. 


THE   HERO  OF  SUGAR   PINE  369 

OF  ONE  WHO  FELL  IN   BATTLE1 

(H.  A.  G.,  JUNE  3,  1864) 

BY  smoke-encumbered  field  and  tangled  lane, 

Down  roads  whose  dust  was  laid  with  scarlet  dew, 

Past  guns  dismounted,  ragged  heaps  of  slain, 

Dark  moving  files,  and  bright  blades  glancing  through, 

All  day  the  waves  of  battle  swept  the  plain 

Up  to  the  ramparts,  where  they  broke  and  cast 

Thy  young  life  quivering  down,  like  foam  before  the  blast. 

Then  sank  the  tumult.     Like  an  angel's  wing, 

Soft  fingers  swept  thy  pulses.     The  west  wind 

Whispered  fond  voices,  mingling  with  the  ring 

Of  Sabbath  bells  of  Peace  —  such  peace  as  brave  men  find, 

And  only  look  for  till  the  months  shall  bring 

Surcease  of  Wrong,  and  fail  from  out  the  land 

Bondage  and  shame,  and  Freedom's  altars  stand. 


THE   HERO   OF   SUGAR  PINE2 

"  OH,  tell  me,  Sergeant  of  Battery  B, 

Oh,  hero  of  Sugar  Pine! 
Some  glorious  deed  of  the  battle-field, 
Some  wonderful  feat  of  thine. 

"  Some  skillful  move,  when  the  fearful  game 

Of  battle  and  life  was  played 
On  yon  grimy  field,  whose  broken  squares 
In  scarlet  and  black  are  laid." 

1  Californian,  August  6,  1864. 

2  Californian,  August  20,  1864. 


370  ST.    VALENTINE   IN  CAMP 

"  Ah,  stranger,  here  at  my  gun  all  day, 

I  fought  till  my  final  round 
Was  spent,  and  I  had  but  powder  left, 
And  never  a  shot  to  be  found; 

"  So  I  trained  my  gun  on  a  rebel  piece : 

So  true  was  my  range  and  aim, 
A  shot  from  his  cannon  entered  mine 
And  finished  the  load  of  the  same !  " 

"  Enough !  Oh,  Sergeant  of  Battery  B, 

Oh,  hero  of  Sugar  Pine  ! 
Alas!  I  fear  that  thy  cannon's  throat 
Can  swallow  much  more  than  mine ! " 


ST.    VALENTINE   IN   CAMP1 

WE  had  borne  the  wintry  sieges  in  our  swamp-encircled 

camp, 
When  a  step  surprised  the  sentry  in  his  measured  tread  and 

tramp, 

And  across  the   broad   abatis  swarmed  the  skirmishes  of 

spring, 
And  the  ivy's  scaling  ladders  on  the  scarp  hung  quivering ; 

Till  the  bold  invader's  colors  shook  on  every  rocky  wall, 
And  the  buds  with  wedding  carols  drowned  the  bugle's 
warning  call. 

Then  a  sudden  vision  thrilled  me,  and  I  seemed  to  stand 
again 

With  my  hand  upon  the  ploughshare  on  the  far  New  Eng 
land  plain, 
i  Evening  Bulletin  (San  Francisco),  March  1,  1865. 


ST.    VALENTINE   IN  CAMP  371 

Blithely  sang  the  lark  above  me,  and  among  the  gathered 
kine 

Sang  the  milkmaid  in  the  farmyard,  sang  the  song  of  Val 
entine  j 

Or  across  the  distant  meadow,  as  of   old  she  seemed  to 

glide  — 
She  whose  troth  with  mine  was  plighted  when  we  wandered 

side  by  side. 

Where  the  wanton  winds  of  summer    stirred  the  maple's 

leafy  crown, 
Or  the  gusty  breath  of  Autumn  shook  the  rugged  walnuts 

down. 

But  between  me  and  my  vision  rise  the  graves  upon  the 

hill 
Where  my  comrades  lie  together,  and  the  winds  are  hushed 

and  still. 

They  to  whom  the  lark's  blithe  carol,  and  the  songs  of  love 

are  dead ; 
Vain  to  them    the  white  encampment  of    the  crocus  o'er 

their  head ; 

And   my  cheek  is  flushed  with   crimson — better   that  a 

stranger's  hand 
Guide  the  coulter  in  the  furrow,  if  mine  own  shall  wield 

the  brand! 

What  to  me  the  rattling  walnuts  in  Love's  consecrated 
shade,  < 

Who  have  heard  the  bullets  dropping  in  the  dusky  ambus 
cade  ? 


372  SCHEMMELFENNIG 

What  to  me  if  greenly  flourish  newer  life  within  the  wood, 
If  the  baby  leaves  are  nourished  in  the  dew  of  brothers'  blood  ? 

Blithely  lift  your  tuneful  voices,  blithely  sing  and  merrily 
Chant  your  marriage  morning  paeans,  0  ye  birds,  but  not 
for  me ! 

Till  the  Nation's  dreary  winter  shall  have  passed,  and  time 

shall  bring 
Through  the  Autumn's  smoke  of  battle    glimpses  of   the 

Nation's  Spring; 

Till  a  people's  benediction  mingle  with  the  songs  above, 
That  shall  hail  the  glad  espousals  of  a  long  estranged  love  j 

Then  a  symbol  of  that  Union  shall  my  darling  fitly  wear, 
Hickory  leaves  and  orange  blossoms  wreathed  together  in 
her  hair. 

SCHEMMELFENNIG  l 

[General  Alexander  Schemmelfennig  commanded  the  forces  that  first 
entered  Charleston  upon  its  evacuation  by  the  Confederates  in  1865.] 

BRAVE  Teuton,  though  thy  awful  name 

Is  one  no  common  rhyme  can  mimic, 
Though  in  despair  the  trump  of  Fame 

Evades  thy  painful  patronymic  — 
Though  orators  forego  thy  praise, 

And  timid  bards  by  tongue  or  pen  ig- 
Nore  thee  —  thus  alone  I  raise 

Thy  name  in  song,  my  Schemmelfennig! 

What  though  no  hecatombs  may  swell 
With  mangled  forms  thy  path  victorious ; 
»  Caltfomian.  April  1,  1865. 


THE  VENDUE  OF  JEFFERSON  DAVIS  373 

Though  Charleston  to  thee  bloodless  fell, 
Wert  thou  less  valiant  or  less  glorious  ? 

Thou  took'st  tobacco  —  cotton  —  grain  — 

And  slaves  —  they  say  a  hundred  and  ten  nig- 

Gers  were  captives  in  thy  train 

And  swelled  thy  pomp,  my  Schemmelfennig ! 

Let  Asboth  mourn  his  name  unsung, 

And  Schurz  his  still  unwritten  story ; 
Let  Blenker  grieve  the  silent  tongue, 

And  Zagonyi  forego  his  glory ; 
Ye  are  but  paltry  farthing  lamps, 

Your  lights  the  fickle  marsh  or.  fen  ig- 
Nus  fatuus  of  Southern  swamps, 

Beside  the  sun  of  Schemmelfennig ! 


THE  VENDUE  OF  JEFFEKSON  DAVIS 

THE    CAUSE 

OF  all  the  tyrants  whose  actions  swell 

The  pages  of  history,  and  tell 

How  well  they  fought,  and  how  brave  they  fell 

In  battle  assault  or  siege,  pell-mell, 

Or  blew  up  their  foes  and  themselves  as  well, 

By  way  of  a  general  ridding, 
Commend  us  to  Jefferson  D.  who  spread 
On  the  "  outer  wall "  a  flag  of  red, 
And  called  to  an  auction  sale  instead 

The  wretches  who  did  his  bidding. 

And  yet,  so  fickle  's  the  human  mind, 
In  fact  or  fiction  you  Jll  always  find 
1  Califomian,  April  15,  1865. 


374  THE   VENDUE   OF   JEFFERSON   DAVIS 

The  popular  taste  is  most  inclined 

To  the  traitor  that 's  most  consistent, 
And  the  standard  drama  declares  the  fact 
That  he  ought  to  die  with  his  weapon  hack't, 
Or  fall  on  his  sword  in  the  final  act, 
As  Brutus  once  did  in  his  tent. 

Laugh  at  the  principle  if  you  will, 
One  feels  a  kind  of  indefinite  thrill 
For  the  hunted  pirate  who  cowers  still 
O'er  his  magazine  with  an  iron  will 

And  a  pistol  cocked  and  loaded, 
And  knows  that  capture  will  hring  the  flash, 
The  swift  upheaval,  and  awful  crash, 
The  blinding  smoke,  and  the  sullen  splash, 
But  never  dreamed  of  selling  for  cash, 

As  certain  people  we  know  did ; 
Alas !  that  the  theory  and  the  rash 

Example  are  both  exploded. 

No  doubt  that  Samson  essayed  to  crown 

In  some  such  manner  his  life's  renown 

In  that  final  act  which  they  say  brought  down 

The  house  on  his  last  appearance  ; 
Or,  if  further  illustrations  you  lack, 
I  ?ve  been  keeping  the  scorpion  figure  back, 
Who,  girdled  with  fire,  is  never  slack 

In  effecting  his  mortal  clearance. 

But  there  are  skeptical  folk  who  doubt 

If  Jefferson  Davis  really  sold  out, 

On  the  eve  of  his  final  defeat  and  rout, 

Such  trifles  as  pots  and  kettles ; 
Or  ever  his  proud  soul  stooped  so  low, 
While  girding  his  loins  for  a  final  blow, 


THE   VENDUE   OF  JEFFERSON  DAVIS  375 

To  lend  himself  to  a  Yankee  show, 

Whose  very  detail  belittles, 
And  call  the  tale  a  canard  —  as  near 
What  really  is  genuine  and  sincere 
As  the  duck  of  Vaucauson  might  appear 

To  the  one  that  digests  its  victuals. 

But  ah !  the  poet,  whose  prophet  eyes 
Can  look  through  the  battle-clouds  that  rise, 
Sees  not  the  traders  who  sacrifice 
Such  homely  trifles  as  housewives  prize, 

But  a  symbol  of  something  greater — 
The  selling  out  of  a  mansion  built 
On  the  soil  where  a  Nation's  blood  is  spilt, 
With  Fate  for  an  auctioneer,  and  Guilt 

Close  by,  an  amazed  spectator. 

To  such  there  comes  a  terrible  awe, 

To  think  that  the  people  who  gathered  saw 

The  mighty  arm  of  some  Northern  Thor 

Uplifting  the  auction  hammer, 
And  knocking  down  with  each  terrible  blow 
Some  things  that  the  catalogue  did  n't  show, 
In  words  that  the  reader  will  find  below 

Mixed  up  with  the  vendor's  clamor: 


THE    SALE 

"  Going,  gentlemen  !  —  going,  gone  ! 
The  entire  furniture,  slightly  worn, 
And  the  family  portraits  these  walls  adorn, 
Well  worthy  of  any  man's  —  hanging ; 
And  some  English  carpets  as  good  as  new, 
A  little  down-trodden,  but  then  they  '11  do 


376  THE  VENDUE   OF  JEFFEKSON  DAVIS 

If  you  let  Grant  shake  'em  and  put  'em  through 
The  usual  beating  and  banging  ! 

"Who  bids  for  a  genealogical  tree  — 
A  beautiful  piece  of  embroidery, 
A  very  first  family's  pedigree  ? 

What  a  chance  for  our  youthful  scions! 
Who  bids  ?     As  the  article  's  useless  now 
I  '11  take  —  <  five  dollars ! '  —  too  bad,  I  vow  ! 
Well,  put  it  in  greenbacks !     What  name  ?  eh,  how  ? 
Ah,  beg  your  pardon  !  — '  Lord  Lyons  ! ' 

<(  A  family  Bible  I  offer  next, 
WThich  opens  itself  at  a  certain  text 
About  Onesimus  that  once  vext 

The  church  as  a  casus  belli  ; 
And  all  those  passages  stricken  out 
Which  provoke  research  in  this  age  of  doubt : 
How  much  ?  —  Ah,  thank  you  ?  —  't  is  yours,  my  stout 

Old  Cardinal  —  Antonelli ! 

"  Now  here 's  an  article  one  might  skip, 
But  the  lot  goes  together  —  a  driver's  whip, 
And,  barring  some  stains  on  the  thong  and  tip, 

It 's  still  in  complete  preservation  : 

Who  bids  ?  where  's  the  man  who  's  afraid  to  speak  loud  ? 
What,  you,  little  white-coat,  just  back  in  the  crowd, 
With  the  yellow  mustachios  and  bearing  so  proud ! 

Going,  gone  !  —  to  the  Austrian  Legation ! 

"  Going,  gentlemen  —  going,  gone  ! 
The  household  gods  of  a  man  forlorn, 
For  the  benefit  of  the  wives  that  mourn, 
And  of  children's  children,  yet  unborn, 
And  of  bonds  that  none  shall  sever ; 


IN  MEMORIAM  377 

The  house,  and  all  that  the  house  contains, 
The  wandering  ghosts  and  their  vengeful  manes, 
The  naked  walls  and  their  blots  and  stains, 
And  even  the  title  that  now  obtains 
With  an  U.  S.  Grant  forever  1 " 


IN  MEMORIAM1 

JEFFERSON    DAVIS 

Repudiator,  Speculator,  Dictator ; 
Who  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being  the  first 

And  last 

President  of  the  Southern  Confederacy. 
A  Christian  and  Chivalrous  Gentleman, 
He  starved  Union  Captives  in  his  Prisons, 
And  sanctioned  the  Massacre  of  Fort  Pillow. 
But  his  manners  were  courtly  and  elegant, 
And  his  State  papers  models  of  excellence. 
He  was  remarkable  for  his  executive  wisdom : 

To  provide  material  for  his  forces, 

He  ordered  corn  to  be  planted  instead  of  cotton, 

Which  enabled  Sherman  to  march  through  Georgia. 

He  perpetuated  a  Slave  Empire, 
Whose  bondsmen  were  guides  to  the  Union  Armies* 

Consistent  in  his  inconsistencies, 

He  connived  at  the  assassination  of  the  only  man 

Who  could  have  saved  him  from  the  gallows. 

The  incarnation  of  dignity  and  heroism, 

He  was  taken  disguised  in  his  wife 's  petticoats, 

Claiming  exemption  from  capture 

On  the  grounds  of  his  femininity. 

As  such,  friends,  respect  his  weakness, 

And  that  of  the  few  who  still  admire  him. 

1  Calif ornian,  May  20,  1865. 


378  THE  LAMENT  OF  THE   BALLAD-WRITER 

THE  LAMENT   OF  THE  BALLAD-WKITER 

Air:  "Just  Before  the  Battle,  Mother" 

Now  the  battle  's  over,  Mother, 

And  your  tears  no  longer  start, 
Keally,  it  is  my  opinion 

You  and  I  had  better  part. 
Farewell,  Mother,  if  forever, 

Your  affection  I  resign, 
Gone  the  days  when  just  your  blessing 

Brought  me  fifty  cents  a  line. 

Farewell,  0  Maternal  Fiction  ! 

Thou  whose  far-parental  sigh 
Home  has  brought  the  youthful  soldier, 

Time  and  time  again  to  die. 
Farewell,  Mother,  you  may  never 

In  the  future,  peaceful  years, 
Bring  a  sob  from  private  boxes  — 

Steep  a  dress-circle  in  tears. 

Farewell,  0  thou  gentle  sister! 

Thou,  who  in  my  cunning  hand, 
Didst  deliver  pious  sermons, 

Mild,  innocuous,  and  bland ; 
Never  more  from  thee  I  '11  borrow 

Moral  sentiments  to  preach, 
Nor  shall  "  morrow  "  rhyme  with  "  sorrow  " 

In  thy  bitter  parting  speech. 

Farewell,  0  devoted  Maiden  ! 

Thou  who  for  the  country,  true, 
Sacrificed  not  only  lover 

But  thy  Lindley  Murray,  too ; 
1  Calif ornian,  October  7,  1865. 


A  THANKSGIVING  RETROSPECT  379 

Incoherent  was  my  logic, 

Wild  and  vague  thy  words  I  fear, 
Yet  the  pit  would  still  encore  thee, 

And  the  galleries  would  cheer. 

Farewell,  all  ye  facile  phrases, 

Gags  and  sentimental  cant ! 
Names  that  took  the  place  of  ideas  — 

Sherman,  Sheridan,  and  Grant ; 
Gone  the  days  when  schoolboy  jingles 

Took  the  place  of  manly  talk, 
When  the  "  thought  that  breathed  "  was  puny, 

And  the  word  that  burned  —  burnt  cork. 

Just  before  the  battle,  Mother, 

Then  my  cheapest  figure  toldj 
While  the  rebel  stood  before  us, 

Then  my  glitter  looked  like  gold. 
Now  this  "  cruel  war  is  over," 

All  inflated  thought  must  fall ; 
Mother,  dear,  your  boy  must  henceforth 

Write  sound  sense,  or  not  at  all. 


A  THANKSGIVING   RETROSPECT1 

WELL  !     Charge  your  glasses  !  —  Softly,  friends, 

The  toast  we  drink  to-night : 
"  The  vacant  chair,"  that  holds  the  post 

Of  honor  on  our  right. 
"  The  vacant  chair  "  —  why  now  so  grave 

Your  looks  once  bright  with  love  ? 
What  though  our  circle  narrows  here, 
It  widens  still  above. 

1  Californian,  December  9,  1865» 


380  A  THANKSGIVING  RETROSPECT 

We  drink  to  him  who  joins  the  host 

That  left  our  hearth  before  — 
Dear  hands  that  once  have  clasped  our  own 

Shall  touch  his  on  that  shore ; 
The  grandsire  whose  unflinching  soul 

Went  up  from  Concord  fight, 
Shall  welcome  him  whose  youthful  arm 

Last  year  struck  home  for  Eight ! 

That  though  he  lived  where  barren  hills 

Were  white  with  winter  snows, 
Where  man  through  stubborn  toil  alone 

To  higher  nature  rose : 
He  sleeps  where  never  click  of  hail 

Or  ice  their  changes  ring, 
But  consonants  of  Winter  yield 

To  open-vowels  of  Spring. 

Above  him  drifts  the  cotton-bloom 

Knee-deep  above  his  grave  ; 
The  shroud  that  veils  his  southern  bed 

The  north-wind  never  gave. 
His  sable  mourners  tread  a  shore 

Enfranchised  from  their  toil  — 
Thank  God !  (through  valor  such  as  his) 

Our  own  —  no  foreign  soil ! 

Then  charge  your  glasses  full,  and  pour 

A  stream  as  red  and  free 
As  that  which  from  his  youthful  veins 

Was  poured  for  Liberty. 
To-night  no  sorrow  drown  our  thanks  — • 

To-morrow  tears  may  fall 
For  him  who  fills  the  vacant  chair, 

Yet  sleeps  near  Tybee's  wall. 


LATER  POEMS 

1871-1902 


CHICAGO 
(THE  GREAT  CONFLAGRATION  OF  OCTOBER  s-io,  1871) 

BLACKENED  and  bleeding,  helpless,  panting,  prone, 
On  the  charred  fragments  of  her  shattered  throne 
Lies  she  who  stood  but  yesterday  alone. 

Queen  of  the  West !  by  some  enchanter  taught 

To  lift  the  glory  of  Aladdin's  court, 

Then  lose  the  spell  that  all  that  wonder  wrought. 

Like  her  own  prairies  by  some  chance  seed  sown, 
Like  her  own  prairies  in  one  brief  day  grown, 
Like  her  own  prairies  in  one  fierce  night  mown. 

She  lifts  her  voice,  and  in  her  pleading  call 
We  hear  the  cry  of  Macedon  to  Paul  — 
The  cry  for  help  that  makes  her  kin  to  all. 

But  haply  with  wan  fingers  may  she  feel 
The  silver  cup  hid  in  the  proffered  meal  — 
The  gifts  her  kinship  and  our  loves  reveal. 


BILL  MASON'S   BKIDE 

HALF  an  hour  till  train  time,  sir, 
An'  a  fearful  dark  time,  too ; 

Take  a  look  at  the  switch  lights,  Tom, 
Fetch  in  a  stick  when  you  're  through. 


384  BILL  MASON'S  BRIDE 

"  On  time  ?  "  well,  yes,  I  guess  so  — 

Left  the  last  station  all  right  — 
She  '11  come  round  the  curve  a-flyin'  ; 
Bill  Mason  comes  up  to-night. 

You  know  Bill  ?     No !     He  's  engineer, 

Been  on  the  road  all  his  life  — 
I  '11  never  forget  the  mornin' 

He  married  his  chuck  of  a  wife. 
'T  was  the  summer  the  mill  hands  struck  — 

Just  off  work,  every  one  ; 
They  kicked  up  a  row  in  the  village 

And  killed  old  Donovan's  son. 

Bill  had  n't  been  married  mor  'n  an  hour, 

Up  comes  a  message  from  Kress, 
Orderin'  Bill  to  go  up  there, 

And  bring  down  the  night  express. 
He  left  his  gal  in  a  hurry, 

And  went  up  on  number  one, 
Thinking  of  nothing  but  Mary, 

And  the  train  he  had  to  run. 

And  Mary  sat  down  by  the  window 

To  wait  for  the  night  express ; 
And,  sir,  if  she  had  n't  'a'  done  so, 

She  'd  been  a  widow,  I  guess. 
For  it  must  'a'  been  nigh  midnight 

When  the  mill  hands  left  the  Ridge  — 
They  come  down — the  drunken  devils!  — 

Tore  up  a  rail  from  the  bridge. 
But  Mary  heard  'em  a-workin' 

And  guessed  there  was  somethin*  wrong - 
And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes, 

Bill's  train  it  would  be  along! 


DEACON  JONES'S  EXPERIENCE  385 

She  could  n't  come  here  to  tell  us  : 

A  mile  —  it  would  n't  V  done  — 
So  she  jest  grabbed  up  a  lantern, 

And  made  for  the  bridge  alone. 
Then  down  came  the  night  express,  sir, 

And  Bill  was  makin'  her  climb! 
But  Mary  held  the  lantern, 

A-swingin'  it  all  the  time. 

Well !  by  Jove  !     Bill  saw  the  signal, 

And  he  stopped  the  night  express, 
And  he  found  his  Mary  cry  in' 

On  the  track,  in  her  weddin'  dress ; 
Cryin'  an'  laughin'  for  joy,  sir, 

An'  holdin'  on  to  the  light  — 
Hello !  here 's  the  train  —  good-bye,  sir, 

Bill  Mason 's  on  time  to-night. 

DEACON  JONES'S  EXPERIENCE 
(ARKANSAS  CONFERENCE) 

1874 
YE 'RE  right  when  you  lays  it  down,  Parson, 

Thet  the  flesh  is  weak  and  a  snare ; 
And  to  keep  yer  plow  in  the  furrow  — 

When  yer  cattle  begins  to  rare  — 
Ain't  no  sure  thing.     And,  between  us, 

The  same  may  be  said  of  prayer. 

Why,  I  stood  the  jokes,  on  the  river, 
Of  the  boys,  when  the  critters  found 

Thet  I  >d  jined  the  Church,  and  the  snicker 
Thet,  maybe  ye  mind,  went  round, 

The  day  I  set  down  with  the  mourners, 
In  the  old  camp-meetin'  ground! 


386  DEACON  JONES'S  EXPERIENCE 

I  stood  all  that,  and  I  reckon 
I  might  at  a  pinch  stood  more  — 

For  the  boys,  they  represents  Bael, 

And  I  stands  as  the  Rock  of  the  Law ; 

And  it  seemed  like  a  moral  scrimmage, 
In  holdin'  agin  their  jaw. 

But  thar  's  crosses  a  Christian  suffers, 
As  hezn't  got  that  pretense  — 

Things  with  no  moral  purpose, 
Things  ez  hez  got  no  sense ; 

Things  ez,  somehow,  no  profit 
Will  cover  their  first  expense. 

Ez  how  1     I  was  jest  last  evenin' 
Addressin'  the  Throne  of  Grace, 

And  mother  knelt  in  the  corner, 

And  each  of  the  boys  in  his  place  — 

When  that  sneakin'  pup  of  Keziah's 
To  Jonathan's  cat  giv  chase! 

I  never  let  on  to  mind  'em, 

I  never  let  on  to  hear; 
But  driv  that  prayer  down  the  furrow 

With  the  cat  hidin'  under  my  cheer, 
And  Keziah  a- whispering  "  Sic  her !  " 

And  mother  a-sayin',  "  You  dare !  " 

I  asked  fer  a  light  fer  the  heathen, 
To  guide  on  his  narrer  track, 

With  that  dog  and  that  cat  jest  walzin', 
And  Jonathan's  face  jest  black, 

When  the  pup  made  a  rush  and  the  kitten 
Dropped  down  on  the  small  of  my  back. 


THE  MAY   QUEEN  387 

Yes,  I  think,  with  the  Lud's  assistance, 

I  might  have  continered  then, 
If,  gettin'  her  holt,  that  kitten 

Hed  n't  dropped  her  claws  in  me  —  when 
It  somehow  reached  the  "Old  Adam," 

And  I  jumped  to  my  feet  with  "  Amen." 

So,  ye  're  right  when  you  say  it,  Parson, 
Thet  the  flesh  is  weak  and  a  snare; 

And  to  keep  yer  plow  in  the  furrow  — 
When  yer  cattle  begins  to  rare  — 

Ain't  no  sure  thing.     And,  between  us, 
I  say  it 's  jest  so  with  prayer. 


THE   MAY  QUEEN 
(ADAPTED  TO  A  BACKWARD  SEASON) 

IF  you  're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
And  see  that  my  room  is  warm,  mother,   and  the  fire  is 

burning  clear ; 
And   tallow  my  nose  once  more,  mother,  once  more    ere 

you  go  away, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

It  froze  so  hard  last  night,  mother,  that  really  I  could  n't 

break 
The    ice  in  my  little  pitcher,  mother,  till  I  thought  the 

poker  to  take ; 
You  '11  find  it  there  on  the  hearth,  mother  —  but  oh,  let 

that  hot  brick  stay, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 


388  OF  WILLIAM   FRANCIS   BARTLETT 

I  shall  put  on  my  aqua  scutem  outside  of  my  sealskin  coat, 
And  two  or  three  yards  of  flannel,  dear,  will  go  around  my 

throat ; 
And  you  '11  see  that  the  boneset-tea,  mother,  is  drawn  while 

your  child 's  away, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me,  if  her  nose  is  fit  to  be  seen ; 
And  you  shall  be  there,  too,  dear  mother,  to  see  me  made 

the  Queen, 

Provided  the  doctor  '11  let  you ;  and,  if  it  don't  rain  instead, 
Little  Johnny  is  to  take  me  a  part  of  the  way  on  his  sled. 

So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  to-morrow  may  be  the  chilliest  day  of  all  the  glad  New- 
Year; 

For  to-day  is  the  thirtieth,  mother,  and  bless'd  if  your  child 
can  say 

If  she  ain't  an  April  Fool,  mother,  instead  of  a  Queen  o' 
the  May. 


OF  WILLIAM    FRANCIS   BARTLETT 

DEAD    AT    PITTSFIELD,    MASSACHUSETTS,    1876 

0  POOR  Romancer,  —  thou  whose  printed  page, 
Filled  with  rude  speech  and  ruder  forms  of  strife, 

Was  given  to  heroes  in  whose  vulgar  rage 
No  trace  appears  of  gentler  ways  and  life !  — 

Thou,  who  wast  wont  of  commoner  clay  to  build 
Some  rough  Achilles  or  some  Ajax  tall ; 

Thou,  whose  free  brush  too  oft  was  wont  to  gild 
Some  single  virtue  till  it  dazzled  all ;  — 


OF  WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT  389 

What  right  hast  thou  beside  this  laureled  bier 
Whereon  all  manhood  lies  —  whereon  the  wreath 

Of  Harvard  rests,  the  civic  crown,  and  here 

The  starry  flag,  and  sword  and  jeweled  sheath  ? 

Seest  thou  these  hatchments  ?     Knowest  thou  this  blood 
Nourished  the  heroes  of  Colonial  days ;  — 

Sent  to  the  dim  and  savage-haunted  wood 

Those  sad-eyed  Puritans  with  hymns  of  praise  ? 

Look  round  thee !  Everywhere  is  classic  ground. 

There  Greylock  rears.     Beside  yon  silver  "  Bowl " 
Great  Hawthorne  dwelt,  and  in  its  mirror  found 

Those  quaint,  strange  shapes  that  filled  his  poet's  soul. 

Still  silent,  Stranger  ?     Thou,  who  now  and  then 

Touched  the  too  credulous  ear  with  pathos,  canst  not 
speak  ? 

Hast  lost  thy  ready  skill  of  tongue  and  pen  ? 
What,  Jester !     Tears  upon  that  painted  cheek  ? 


Pardon,  good  friends !     I  am  not  here  to  mar 

His  laureled  wreaths  with  this  poor  tinseled  crown, 

This  man  who  taught  me  how  7t  was  better  far 
To  be  the  poem  than  to  write  it  down. 

I  bring  no  lesson.     Well  have  others  preached 
This  sword  that  dealt  full  many  a  gallant  blow ; 

I  come  once  more  to  touch  the  hand  that  reached 
Its  knightly  gauntlet  to  the  vanquished  foe. 

0  pale  Aristocrat,  that  liest  there, 

So  cold,  so  silent !  Couldst  thou  not  in  grace 

Have  borne  with  us  still  longer,  and  so  spare 
The  scorn  we  see  in  that  proud,  placid  face  ? 


390  THE  WANDERINGS   OF  ULYSSES 

"  Hail  and  farewell !  "  So  the  proud  Eoman  cried 
O'er  his  dead  hero.  "Hail/3  but  not  "farewell." 

With  each  high  thought  thou  walkest  side  by  side ; 

We  feel  thee,  touch  thee,  know  who  wrought  the  spell ! 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   ULYSSES 

AS    REPORTED    BY    MARY  JONES,    MAID   TO    MRS.    GRANT 

WE  'RE  here,  dear,  and  what  with  our  glories 

And  honor,  you  '11  know  by  that  sign 
Why  we  have  n't  met  Mrs.  Sartoris 

And  I  have  n't  written  a  line ; 
Why,  what  with  Dukes  giving  receptions, 

And  going  in  state  to  Guildhall, 
You  ain't  got  the  faintest  conceptions 

Of  what  we  are  doing  at  all ! 

I  've  just  took  the  card  of  a  Countess, 

I  've  said  "  Not-at-home  "  to  an  Earl ; 
As  for  Viscounts  and  Lords  the  amount  is 

Too  absurd.     WThy  there  is  n't  a  girl 
In  Galena  who  would  n't  be  hating 

Your  friend  Mary  Jones,  who  now  writes, 
While  behind  her  this  moment,  in  waiting, 

Stands  the  gorgeousest  critter  in  tights. 

He 's  the  valet  of  Viscount  Fitz  Doosem ; 

He  wears  eppylets  and  all  that; 
Has  an  awful  nosegay  in  his  bosom ; 

His  legs  are  uncommonly  fat. 
He  called  our  Ulysses  "  My  Master," 

Just  think  of  it !  —  but  I  stopped  that. 
He  tried  to  be  halfway  familiar, 

But  I  busted  the  crown  of  his  hat  ! 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF  ULYSSES  391 

We  're  to  dine  out  at  Windsor  on  Friday ; 

We  take  tea  with  the  Princess  next  week; 
Of  course  I  shall  make  myself  tidy 

And  fix  myself  up,  so  to  speak. 
"  I  presume  I  'm  addressing  the  daughter 

Of  America's  late  President  ?  " 
Said  a  Duke  to  me  last  night ;  you  oughter 

Have  seen  how  he  stammered  and  —  went. 

The  fact  is  the  "  help  "  of  this  city 

Ain't  got  no  style,  nohow  ;  why,  dear, 
Though  I  shouldn't  say  it,  I  pity 

These  Grants,  for  they  do  act  so  queer. 
Why,  Grant  smoked  and  drinked  with  a  Marshal, 

Like  a  Senator,  and  Missus  G., 
"Well !  —  though  I  'm  inclined  to  be  partial, 

She  yawned  through  a  royal  levee. 

Why,  only  last  night,  at  a  supper, 

He  sat  there  so  simple  and  still, 
That,  had  I  the  pen  of  a  —  Tupper, 

I  could  n't  express  my  shame  —  till 
An  Earl,  he  rose  up  and  says,  winking, 
"  You  're  recalling  your  battles,  no  doubt  ?  " 
Says  Ulysses,  "I  only  was  thinking 

Of  the  Stanislaus  and  the  dug-out. 

"  And  the  scow  that  I  ran  at  Knight's  Ferry, 

And  the  tolls  that  I  once  used  to  take." 
Imagine  it,  dear !     Them 's  the  very 

Expression  he  used.     Why,  I  quake 
As  I  think  of  it  —  till  a  great  Duchess 

Holds  out  her  white  hand  and  says  "  shake  "  , 
Or  words  of  that  meaning ;  for  such  is 

Them  English  to  folks  whom  they  take. 


392  THAT  EBREW  JEW 

There  Js  dear  Mr.  Pierrepont;  yet  think,  love, 

In  spite  of  his  arms  and  his  crest, 
And  his  liveries  —  all  he  may  prink,  love, 

Don't  bring  him  no  nearer  the  best ; 
For  they  're  tired  of  shamming  and  that  thing 

They  've  had  for  some  eight  hundred  year, 
And  really  perhaps  it 's  a  blessing 

These  Grants  are  uncommonly  queer. 

As  for  me,  dear,  —  don't  let  it  go  further,  — 

But  —  umph  !  —  there  's  the  son  of  a  peer 
Who  's  waiting  for  me  till  his  father 

Shall  give  him  a  thousand  a  year ; 
Tha  castle  we  '11  live  in,  as  I  know, 

Is  the  size  of  the  White  House,  my  dear, 
And  you  '11  just  tell  them  folks  from  Ohio 

That  I  think  we  will  settle  down  here. 


THAT   EBREW  JEW 

THERE  once  was  a  tradesman  renowned  as  a  screw 
Who  sold  pins  and  needles  and  calicoes  too, 
Till  he  built  up  a  fortune  —  the  which  as  it  grew 
Just  ruined  small  traders  the  whole  city  through  — 

Yet  one  thing  he  knew, 

Between  me  and  you, 

There  was  a  distinction 

'Twixt  Christian  and  Jew. 

Till  he  died  in  his  mansion  —  a  great  millionaire  — 
The  owner  of  thousands ;  but  nothing  to  spare 
For  the  needy  and  poor  who  from  hunger  might  drop, 
And  only  a  pittance  to  clerks  in  his  shop. 


THAT  EBREW  JEW  393 

But  left  it  all  to 
A  Lawyer,  who  knew 
A  subtile  distinction 
'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

This  man  was  no  trader,  but  simply  a  friend 

Of  this  Gent  who  kept  shop  and  who,  nearing  his  end, 

Handed  over  a  million  —  't  was  only  his  due, 

Who  discovered  this  contrast  'twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

For  he  said,  "  If  you  view 

This  case  as  I  do, 

There  is  a  distinction 

'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

For  the  Jew  is  a  man  who  will  make  money  through 
His  skill,  his  finesse,  and  his  capital  too, 
And  an  Ebrew  's  a  man  that  we  Gentiles  can  '  do,' 
So  you  see  there  's  a  contrast  'twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

Ebrew  and  Jew, 

Jew  and  Ebrew, 

There 's  a  subtile  distinction 

'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew." 

So  he  kept  up  his  business  of  needles  and  pins, 
But  always  one  day  he  atoned  for  his  sins, 
But  never  the  same  day  (for  that  would  n't  do), 
That  the  Jew  faced  his  God  with  the  awful  Ebrew. 

For  this  man  he  knew, 

Between  me  and  you, 

There  was  a  distinction 

'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

So  he  sold  soda-water  and  shut  up  the  fount 

Of  a  druggist  whose  creed  was  the  Speech  on  the  Mount; 

And  he  trafficked  in  gaiters  and  ruined  the  trade 

Of  a  German  whose  creed  was  by  great  Luther  made. 


394  THAT  EBREW  JEW 

But  always  he  knew, 
Between  me  and  you, 
A  subtile  distinction 
'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

Then  he  kept  a  hotel  —  here  his  trouble  began  — 
In  a  fashion  unknown  to  his  primitive  plan ; 
For  the  rule  of  this  house  to  his  manager  ran, 
"Don't  give  entertainment  to  Israelite  man." 

Yet  the  manager  knew, 

Between  me  and  you, 

No  other  distinction 

'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

"  You  may  give  to  John  Morissey  supper  and  wine, 
And  Madame  N.  X.  to  your  care  I  '11  resign ; 
You  '11  see  that  those  Jenkins  from  Missouri  Flat 
Are  properly  cared  for ;  but  recollect  that 

Never  a  Jew 

Who  ?s  not  an  Ebrew 

Shall  take  up  his  lodgings 

Here  at  the  Grand  U. 

"  You  '11  allow  Miss  McFlimsey  her  diamonds  to  wear; 

You  '11  permit  the  Van  Dams  at  the  waiters  to  swear ; 

You  '11  allow  Miss  Decollete  to  flirt  on  the  stair ; 

But  as  to  an  Israelite  —  pray  have  a  care ; 
For,  between  me  and  you, 
Though  the  doctrine  is  new, 
There 's  a  business  distinction 
'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew." 

Now,  how  shall  we  know  ?     Prophet,  tell  us,  pray  do, 
Where  the  line  of  the  Hebrew  fades  into  the  Jew  ? 
Shall  we  keep  out  Disraeli  and  take  Rothschild  in  ? 
Or  snub  Meyerbeer  and  think  Verdi  a  sin  ? 


THE  LEGEND   OF   GLEN  HEAD  395 

What  shall  we  do  ? 
0,  give*  us  a  few 
Points  to  distinguish 
'Twixt  Ebrew  and  Jew. 

There  was  One — Heaven  help  us ! — who  died  in  man's  place, 
With  thorns  on  his  forehead,  but  Love  in  his  face : 
And  when  "  foxes  had  holes  "  and  birds  in  the  air 
Had  their  nests  in  the  trees,  there  was  no  spot  to  spare 

For  this  "  King  of  the  Jews." 

Did  the  Romans  refuse 

This  right  to  the  Ebrews 

Or  only  to  Jews  ? 


THE  LEGEND   OF   GLEN   HEAD 
(RELATED  BY  A  CAUTIOUS  OBSERVER) 

THEY  say  —  though  I  know  not  what  value  to  place 

On  the  strength  of  mere  local  report  — 
That  this  was  her  home  —  though  the  tax  list  gives  space, 

I  observe,  to  no  fact  of  the  sort. 

But  here  she  would  sit ;  on  that  wheel  spin  her  flax,  — 

I  here  may  remark  that  her  hair 
Was  compared  to  that  staple,  —  yet  as  to  the  facts 

There  is  no  witness  willing  to  swear. 

Yet  here  she  would  sit,  by  that  window  reserved 
For  her  vines  —  like  a  "  bower  of  bloom," 

You  '11  remark  I  am  quoting  —  the  fact  I  've  observed 
Is  that  plants  attract  flies  to  the  room. 

The  house  and  the  window,  the  wheel  and  the  flax 
Are  still  in  their  status  preserved,  — 


396  THE  LEGEND  OF   GLEN  HEAD 

And  yet,  what  conclusion  to  draw  from  these  facts, 
I  regret  I  have  never  observed. 

Her  parents  were  lowly,  her  lover  was  poor ; 

In  brief  it  appears  their  sole  plea 
For  turning  Fitz-William  away  from  her  door 

Was  that  he  was  still  poorer  than  she. 

Yet  why  worldly  wisdom  was  so  cruel  then, 

And  perfectly  proper  to-day, 
I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  conceive,  —  but  my  pen 

Is  digressing.     They  drove  him  away. 

Yon  bracket  supported  the  light  she  would  trim 

Each  night  to  attract  by  its  gleam, 
Moth-like,  her  Fitz-William,  who  fondly  would  swim 

To  her  side  —  seven  miles  and  upstream. 

I  know  not  how  great  was  the  length  of  his  limb 
Or  how  strong  was  her  love-taper's  glow ; 

But  it  seems  an  uncommon  long  distance  to  swim 
And  the  light  of  a  candle  to  show. 

When  her  parents  would  send  her  quite  early  to  bed 
She  would  place  on  yon  bench  with  great  care 

A  sandwich,  instead  of  the  crumbs  that  she  fed, 
To  her  other  wild  pets  that  came  there. 

One  night  —  though  the  date  is  not  given,  in  view 
Of  the  fact  that  no  inquest  was  found  — 

A  corpse  was  discovered  —  Fitz- William's  ?  —  a  few 
Have  alleged  —  drifting  out  on  the  Sound. 

At  the  news  she  fell  speechless,  and,  day  after  day, 
She  sank  without  protest  or  moan ; 


"KITTY  HAWK"  397 

Till  at  last,  like  a  foam-flake,  she  melted  away  — 
So  ?t  is  said,  for  her  grave  is  unknown. 

Twenty  years  from  that  day  to  the  village  again 

Came  a  mariner  portly  and  gray, 
Who  was  married  at  Hempstead — the  record  is  plain 

Of  the  justice  —  on  that  fatal  day. 

He  hired  the  house,  and  regretted  the  fate 

Of  the  parties  whose  legend  I  ?ve  told. 
He  made  some  repairs,  —  for  Jt  is  proper  to  state 

That  the  house  was  exceedingly  old. 

His  name  was  McCorkle  —  now,  while  there  is  naught 

To  suggest  of  Fitz- William  in  that, 
You  '11  remember,  if  living,  our  Fitz- William  ought 

To  have  grown  somewhat  grayer  and  fat. 

But  this  is  conjecture.     The  fact  still  remains 

Of  the  vines  and  the  flax  as  before. 
And  knowing  your  weakness  I  Jve  taken  some  pains 

To  present  them,  my  love,  nothing  more. 


"KITTY   HAWK" 

A    MARINE    DIALOGUE 

[Kitty  Hawk,  North  Carolina,  a  small  settlement  and  signal  station,  was, 
in  November,  1877,  the  scene  of  the  wreck  of  the  United  States  man-of-war 
Huron,  and  the  loss  of  almost  all  the  crew.  The  fact  that  apparently  no 
effort  was  made  at  rescue,  and  the  finding  for  many  miles  along  the  shore 
of  the  bodies  stripped  of  all  valuables,  led  to  considerable  comment.] 

Poet  Kitty 

POET 

WHERE  the  seas  worn  out  with  chasing,  at  thy  white  feet 
sink  embracing,  thou  still  sittest,  coldly  facing, 

Kitty  Hawk ! 


398  " KITTY  HAWK" 

Facing,  gazing  seaward  ever,  on  each  weak  or  strong  en 
deavor,  but  in  grief,  or  pity,  never, 

Kitty  Hawk ! 

Eagles,  sea-gulls  round  thee  flying,  land  birds  spent  with 
speed  and  dying,  even  Man  to  thee  outcrying, 

Kitty  Hawk ! 

All  thou  seest,  all  thou  nearest,  yet  thou  carest  naught  nor 
f earest,  flesh  nor  fowl  to  thee  is  dearest, 

Kitty  Hawk! 

Art  thou  human  ?  art  thou  woman  ?  art  thou  dead  to  love 
and  to  man  more  than  all  relentless,  ever  ? 

Kitty  Hawk! 

Hast  thou  wrongs  to  right,  0  Kitty  ?  wrongs  that  move  the 
soul  to  pity  ?  tell  to  me  thy  mournful  ditty, 

Kitty  Hawk ! 

Tell  me  all !  how  some  false  lover,  vagrant  ship-boy,  sailor 
rover,  left,  bereft  thee,  threw  thee  over, 

Kitty  Hawk! 

For   some  Antipodean  savage,  left  thy  rage   the  shore  to 
ravage  (with  a  faint  idea  of  salvage), 

Kitty  Hawk  ! 

How  thy  vague  but  tragic  story  clothes  the  sandy  promon 
tory,  calls  in  accents  monitory, 

Kitty  Hawk ! 

How  thy  feline  appellation,  in  accipitrine  combination,  most 
befits  a  rhymed  narration, 

Kitty  Hawk! 


MISS  EDITH  HELPS  THINGS  ALONG  399 

KITTY 

Festive  tramp  !  around  me  prying  —  man  with  hair  unkempt 
and  flying  — youth  with  neck  and  head  retractile, 

Like  a  clam. 

Draw  within  thy  soft  inclosure,  stop  this  cerebral  exposure, 
for  that 's  not  the  kind  of  hairpin 

That  I  am. 

If    you're    me   apostrophizing,    with    this   attitudinizing, 
prithee,  hasten  your  uprising, 

And  in  time, 

On  this  heach,  which  is  the  Station's,  leave  some  certain  in 
dentations  —  "  footprints  "  for  some  sailing  brother, 

Who  might  rhyme ! 

For   my  name    is  Jane  Maria,  and   my  father,  Kezuriah, 
though  he  greatly  might  admire, 

All  your  talk, 

As  one  of  the  town  officials,  might  prefer  that  his  initials 
should  appear,  just  as  he  writes  them  — 

K.  T.  Hawk. 


MISS   EDITH  HELPS   THINGS   ALONG 

"  MY  sister  '11  be  down  in  a  minute,  and  says  you  7re  to  wait, 

if  you  please, 
And  says  I  might  stay  till  she  came,  if  I  'd  promise  her 

never  to  tease. 
Nor  speak  till  you  spoke  to  me  first.     But  that  Js  nonsense, 

for  how  would  you  know 
What  she  told  me  to  say,  if  I  didn't  ?     Don't  you  really 

and  truly  think  so  ? 


400  MISS  EDITH  HELPS  THINGS  ALONG 

"  And  then   you  'd  feel  strange  here  alone  !      And   you 

would  n't  know  just  where  to  sit ; 
For  that  chair  is  n't  strong  on  its  legs,  and  we  never  use  it 

a  bit. 
We  keep  it  to  match  with  the  sofa.      But  Jack  says  it 

would  be  like  you 
To  flop  yourself  right  down  upon  it  and  knock  out  the  very 

last  screw. 

"  S'pose  you  try  ?     I  won't  tell.     You  're  afraid  to  !  Oh ! 

you  're  afraid  they  would  think  it  was  mean  ! 
Well,  then,  there  's  the  album  —  that 's  pretty,  if  you  're 

sure  that  your  fingers  are  clean. 
For  sister  says  sometimes  I  daub  it ;  but  she  only  says  that 

when  she 's  cross. 
There  's  her  picture.     You  know  it  ?     It 's  like  her  ;  but 

she  ain't  as  good-looking,  of  course ! 

"This  is  me.     It's  the  best  of  'em  all.     Now,  tell  me, 

you  'd  never  have  thought 
That  once  I  was  little  as  that  ?     It 's  the  only  one  that 

could  be  bought  — 
For  that  was  the  message  to  Pa  from  the  photograph  man 

where  I  sat  — 
That  he  would  n't  print  off  any  more  till  he  first  got  his 

money  for  that. 

"  What  ?     Maybe  you  're  tired  of  waiting.     Why,  often 

she 's  longer  than  this. 
There 's  all  her  back  hair  to  do  up  and  all  of  her  front  curls 

to  friz. 
But  it 's  nice  to  be  sitting  here  talking  like  grown  people, 

just  you  and  me. 
Do  you  think  you  '11  be  coming  here  often?      Oh,  do  !  But 

don't  come  like  Tom  Lee. 


THE  DEAD  POLITICIAN  401 

"Tom  Lee.     Her  last   beau.     Why,  my  goodness!     He 

used  to  be  here  day  and  night, 
Till  the  folks  thought  that  he  'd  be  her  husband ;  and  Jack 

says  that  gave  him  a  fright. 
You  won't  run  away,  then,  as  he  did  ?  for  you  >re  not  a  rich 

man,  they  say. 
Pa  says  you  are  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse.     Now,  are  you  ? 

And  how  poor  are  they  ? 

"Ain't  you  glad  that  you  met  me?     Well,  I  am;  for  I 

know  now  your  hair  isn't  red. 
But  what  there  is  left  of  it 's  mousy,  and  not  what  that 

naughty  Jack  said. 
But  there!     I  must  go.     Sister's  coming.     But  I  wish  I 

could  wait,  just  to  see 
If  she  ran  up  to  you  and  she  kissed  you  in  the  way  that 

she  used  to  kiss  Lee." 


THE  DEAD  POLITICIAN 

FIFTH    WARD 

" '  WHO  's  dead  ? '     Ye  want  to  know 
Whose  is  this  funeral  show  — 

This  A  1  corteg'  ? 
Well,  it  was  Jim  Adair, 
And  the  remains' s  hair 

Sported  a  short  edge ! 

"  When  a  man  dies  like  Jim, 
There  's  no  expense  of  him 

We  boys  are  sparing. 
In  life  he  hated  fuss, 
But —  as  he 's  left  to  us  — 

Them  plumes  he  's  wearing ! 


402  THE  DEAD   POLITICIAN 

"  All  the  boys  here,  you  see, 
Chock  full  each  carriage  ! 
Only  one  woman.     She  — 
Cousin  by  marriage. 

"Who  was  this  Jim  Adair  ? 
Who  ?     Well,  you  ?ve  got  me  there  ! 
Reckon  one  of  them  'air 

Fogy  •  old  residents  ! ' 
Who  ?     Why,  that  corpse  you  see 
Ridin'  so  peacefully, 
Head  o7  this  jamboree  — 

'Lected  three  Presidents ! 

"  Who  was  he  ?     Ask  the  boys 
Who  made  the  biggest  noise, 

Rynders  or  Jimmy  ? 
Who,  when  his  hat  he  'd  fling, 
Knew  how  the  '  Ayes '  would  ring, 

Oh,  no  !  not  Jimmy  ! 

"  Who  was  he  ?     Ask  the  Ward 
Who  hed  the  rules  aboard, 

All  parliamentary? 
Who  ran  the  delegate, 
That  ran  the  Empire  State, 
And  — just  as  sure  as  fate  — 

Ran  the  whole  'kentry  ? 

"  Who  was  he  ?     S'pose  you  try 
That  chap  as  wipes  his  eye 

In  that  hack's  corner. 
Ask  him  —  the  only  man 
That  agin  Jimmy  ran  — 

Now  his  chief  mourner  ! 


OLD  TIME  AND  NEW  403 

"Well  —that 's  the  last  o'  Jim. 
Yes,  we  was  proud  o'  him." 


OLD   TIME   AND   NEW 

(Contributed  to  the  first  number  of  the  Time  Magazine,  April,  1879) 

How  well  we  know  that  figure  limned 

On  every  almanac's  first  page, 
The  beard  unshorn,  the  hair  untrimmed, 

The  gaunt  limbs  bowed  and  bent  with  age ; 
That  well-known  glass  with  sands  run  out, 

That  scythe  that  he  was  wont  to  wield 
With  shriveled  arm,  which  made  us  doubt 

His  power  in  Life's  harvest  field ! 

Ah,  him  we  know !     But  who  comes  here 

Pranked  with  the  fashion  of  the  town  ? 
This  springald,  who  in  jest  or  jeer, 

Tries  on  old  Time's  well-frosted  crown! 
Vain  is  his  paint!     Youth's  freshest  down 

Through  penciled  wrinkles  shows  too  soon 
The  bright  mischievous  face  of  Clown, 

Beneath  the  mask  of  Pantaloon ! 

A  doubtful  jest,  howe'er  well  played, 

To  mock  the  show  of  fleeting  breath 
With  youth's  light  laugh,  and  masquerade 

This  gaunt  stepbrother  of  grim  Death ! 
Is  this  a  moralist  to  teach 

The  equal  fate  of  small  and  large  ? 
Peace !     Yet  —  one  moment  —  yield  him  speech 

Before  we  give  the  scamp  in  charge ! 

"I  crave  no  grace  from  those  who  dream 
Time  only  was,  and  from  the  past 


404  UNDER  THE   GUNS 

Still  draw  the  wisdom  that  they  deem 

Will  only  live  and  only  last. 
Time  is  not  old,  as  all  who  've  tried 

To  kill  or  cheat  him  must  attest : 
And  outward  symbols  cannot  hide 

The  same  firm  pulse  that  stirs  your  breast. 

"The  old  stock  properties  you  preach 

To  truer  symbols  must  pay  tithe; 
M'Cormick's  reapers  better  teach 

My  truths  than  your  old-fashioned  scythe. 
The  racing  '  Timer's '  slender  vane 

That  marks  the  quarter  seconds  pass, 
Marks,  too,  its  moral  quite  as  plain 

As  e'er  was  drawn  in  sand  through  glass. 

"  So  if  I  bring  in  comelier  dress 

And  newer  methods,  things  less  new, 
I  claim  that  honored  name  still  less 

To  be  consistent  than  be  true. 
If  mine  be  not  the  face  that  's  cast 

In  every  almanac  and  rhyme, 
Look  through  them  —  all  that  there  will  last 

You'll  find  within  these  leaves  of  <TIME!>" 


UNDER   THE   GUNS 

UNDER  the  guns  of  the  Fort  on  the  Hill 
Daisies  are  blossoming,  buttercups  fill; 
Up  the  gray  ramparts  the  scaling  vine  flings 
High  its-  green  ladders,  and  falters  and  clings 

Under  the  guns, 

Under  the  guns, 
Under  the  guns  of  the  Fort  on  the  Hill. 


COMPENSATION  405 

Under  the  guns  of  the  Fort  on  the  Hill 
Once  shook  the  earth  with  the  cannonade's  thrill, 
Once  trod  these  buttercups  feet  that,  now  still, 
Lie  all  at  rest  in  their  trench  by  the  mill. 

Under  the  guns, 

Under  the  guns, 
Under  the  guns  of  the  Fort  on  the  Hill. 

Under  the  guns  of  the  Fort  on  the  Hill 
Equal  the  rain  falls  on  good  and  on  ill, 
Soft  lies  the  sunshine,  still  the  brook  runs, 
Still  toils  the  Husbandman  —  under  the  guns, 

Under  the  guns, 

Under  the  guns, 
Under  the  guns  of  the  Fort  on  the  Hill. 

Under  the  guns  of  Thy  Fort  on  the  Hill 
Lord !  in  Thy  mercy  we  wait  on  Thy  will ; 
Lord !  is  it  War  that  Thy  wisdom  best  knows, 
Lord !  is  it  Peace,  that  Thy  goodness  still  shows, 

Under  the  guns, 

Under  the  guns, 
Under  the  guns  of  Thy  Fort  on  the  Hill  ? 

COMPENSATION 

THE  Poet  sings  on  the  plain, 
The  Trader  toils  in  the  mart, 
One  envies  the  other's  gain, 
One  stares  at  the  other's  art. 

Yet  each  one  reaches  his  goal, 
And  the  Critic  sneers  as  they  pass, 
And  each  of  the  three  in  his  soul 
Believes  the  other  an  ass. 


406  SCOTCH  LINES   TO   A.  S.  B. 


OUK   LAUREATE 

(Contributed  to  the  Holmes  number  of  the  Critic,  issued  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  August,  1884  —  the  seventy -fifth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Dr. 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.) 

ONE  day  from  groves  of  pine  and  palm, 

The  poets  of  the  sky  and  cover 
Had  come  to  greet  with  song  and  psalm 

The  whip-poor-will  —  their  woodland  lover. 
All  sang  their  best,  but  one  clear  note 

That  fairly  voiced  their  admiration 
Was  his  —  who  only  sang  by  rote  — 

The  mock-bird's  modest  imitation. 

So  we,  who  'd  praise  the  bard  who  most 

Is  poet  of  each  high  occasion, 
Who  7d  laud  our  laureate,  and  toast 

The  blithe  Toast-Master  of  the  Nation,  — 
To  celebrate  his  fete  to-day, 

In  vain  each  bard  his  praise  rehearses : 
The  best  that  we  can  sing  or  say 

Is  but  an  echo  of  his  verses. 


SCOTCH  LINES  TO  A.  S.  B.1 
(PROM  AN  UNINTELLIGENT  FOREIGNER) 

WE  twa  hae  heard  the  gowans  sing, 
Sae  saf t  and  dour,  sae  fresh  and  gey  j 

And  paidlet  in  the  brae,  in  Spring, 

To  scent  the  new-mown  "  Scots  wha  hae." 

1  Bret  Harte's  reply  to  some  jesting  stanzas  in  the  vernacular  written  by 
his  artist  friend,  Alexander  Stuart  Boyd. 


THE   ENOCH  OF  CALAVERAS  407 

But  maist  we  loo'ed  at  e'en  to  chase 

The  pibroch  through  each  wynd  and  close, 

Or  climb  the  burn  to  greet  an'  face 
The  skeendhus  gangin'  wi'  their  Joes. 

How  aft  we  said  "Eh,  Sirs  !  "  and  "MonI " 

Likewise  "  Whateffer  "  —  apropos 
Of  nothing.     And  pinned  faith  upon 

"  Aiblins  "  —  though  why  we  didna  know. 

We  've  heard  nae  mon  say  "gowd"  for  "gold," 
And  yet  wi'  all  our  tongues  up- curled, 

We  —  like  the  British  drum-beat  —  rolled 
Our  "R's"  round  all  the  speaking  worruld. 

How  like  true  Scots  we  didna  care 

A  bawbee  for  the  present  tense, 
But  said  "  we  will  be  "  when  we  were, 

JT  was  bonny  —  but  it  wasna  sense. 

And  yet,  "  ma  f rien  "  and  "  trusty  frere," 
We  '11  take  a  right  gude  "  Willie  Waught " 

(Tho'  what  that  may  be  is  not  clear, 
Nor  where  it  can  be  made  or  bought). 


THE  ENOCH  OF  CALAVERAS 

WELL,  dog  my  cats  !     Say,  stranger, 

You  must  have  traveled  far  ! 
Just  flood  your  lower  level 

And  light  a  fresh  cigar. 
Don't  tell  me  in  this  weather, 

You  hoofed  it  all  the  way  ? 
Well,  slice  my  liver  lengthways ! 

Why,  stranger,  what 's  to  pay  ? 


408  THE   ENOCH  OF  CALAVERAS 

Huntin'  yer  wife,  you  tell  me  ; 

Well,  now,  dog-gone  my  skin! 
She  thought  you  dead  and  buried, 

And  then  bestowed  her  fin 
Upon  another  fellow  ! 

Just  put  it  there,  old  pard! 
Some  fellows  strike  the  soft  things, 

But  you  have  hit  it  hard. 

I  Jm  right  onto  your  feelin's, 

I  know  how  it  would  be, 
If  my  own  shrub  slopped  over 

And  got  away  from  me. 
Say,  stranger,  that  old  sage  hen, 

That  7s  cookin'  thar  inside, 
Is  warranted  the  finest  wool, 

And  just  a  square  yard  wide. 

I  would  n't  hurt  yer,  pardner, 

But  I  tell  you,  no  man 
Was  ever  blessed  as  I  am 

With  that  old  pelican. 
It 's  goin'  on  some  two  year 

Since  she  was  j'ined  to  me, 
She  was  a  widder  prior, 

Her  name  was  Sophy  Lee  — 

Good  God  !  old  man,  what 's  happened  ? 

Her  ?     She  ?     Is  that  the  one  ? 
That 's  her  ?     Your  wife,  you  tell  me  ? 

Now  reach  down  for  yer  gun. 
I  never  injured  no  man, 

And  no  man  me,  but  squealed, 
And  any  one  who  takes  her 

Must  do  it  d d  well  heeled ! 


"FREE   SILVER  AT  ANGEL'S"  409 

Listen  ?     Surely.     Certainly 

I  '11  let  you  look  at  her. 
Peek  through  the  door,  she  's  in  thar, 

Is  that  your  furnitur'  ? 
Speak,  man,  quick  !     You  're  mistaken ! 

No !     Yours !     You  recognize 
My  wife,  your  wife,  the  same  one  ? 

The  man  who  says  so,  lies! 

Don't  mind  what  I  say,  pardner, 

I'm  not  much  on  the  gush, 
But  the  thing  comes  down  on  me 

Like  fours  upon  a  flush. 
If  that 's  your  wife  — hold  —  steady ! 

That  bottle,  now  my  coat, 
She  '11  think  me  dead  as  you  were. 

My  pipe.    Thar.    I  'm  afloat. 

But  let  me  leave  a  message. 

No;  tell  her  that  I  died: 
No,  no ;  not  that  way,  either, 

Just  tell  her  that  I  cried. 
It  don't  rain  much.     Now,  pardner, 

Be  to  her  what  I  've  been, 
Or,  by  the  God  that  hates  you, 

You  '11  see  me  back  again ! 


"FREE   SILVER  AT   ANGEL'S" 

I  RESIDE  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James, 
I  have  told  the  tale  of  "William"  and  of  "Ah  Sin's" 

sinful  games ; 


410  "FREE   SILVER  AT   ANGEL'S  " 

I  have  yarned  of  "  Our  Society,"  and  certain  gents  I  know, 
Yet  my  words  were  plain  and  simple,  and  I  never  yet  was 
low. 

Thar  is  high-toned  gents,  ink-slingers ;  thar  is  folks  as  will 

allow 

Ye  can't  reel  off  a  story  onless  they  've  taught  ye  how ; 
Till  they  get  the  word  they  're  wantin',  they  're  allus  cryin' 

"Whoa!" 
All  the  while  their  mule  is  pullin'  (that 's  their  "  Pegasus," 

you  know). 

We  ain't  built  that  way  at  Angel's  —  but  why  pursue  this 

theme  ? 

When  things  is  whirling  round  us  in  a  wild  delusive  dream ; 
When  "  fads  "  on  "  bikes  "  go  scorchin'  down  —  to  t  'other 

place  you  know 
(For  I  speak  in  simple  language  —  and  I  never  yet  was  low). 

It  was  rainin'  up  at  Angel's  —  we  war  sittin'  round  the  bar, 
Discussin'  of  "  Free  Silver  "  that  was  "  going  soon  to  par," 
And  Ah  Sin  stood  thar  a-listenin'  like  a  simple  guileless 

child, 
That  hears  the  Angels  singin'  —  so  dreamy  like  he  smiled. 

But  we  knew  while   he  was   standin'  thar  —  of  all   that 

heathen  heard 

And  saw  —  he  never  understood  a  single  blessed  word ; 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras,  who  had  waltzed  up  on  his  bike, 
Sez  r  "  What  is  your  opinion,  John,  that  this  Free  Silver 's 

like?"   * 

But  Ah  Sin  said,  "No  shabbee,"  in  his  childish,  simple 

way, 
And  Brown  he  tipped  a  wink  at  us  and  then  he  had  his  say : 


"FREE  SILVER  AT  ANGEL' S  "  411 

He  demonstrated  then  and  thar  how  silver  was  as  good 
As  gold  —  if  folks  war  n't  blasted  fools,  and  only  under 
stood  ! 

He  showed  how  we  "  were  crucified  upon  a  cross  of  gold  " 
By  millionaires,  and  banged  his  fist,  until  our  blood  ran 

cold. 
He  was  a  most   convincin'  man  —  was  Brown  in  all  his 

ways, 
And  his  skill  with  a  revolver,  folks  had  oft  remarked  with 

praise. 

He  showed  us  how  the  ratio  should  be  as  "  sixteen  to  one," 
And  he  sorted  out  some  dollars  —  while  the  boys  enjoyed 

the  fun  — 

And  laid  them  on  the  counter  —  and  heaped  'em  in  a  pile, 
While  Ah   Sin,  he  drew  nearer  with  his  happy,  pensive 

smile. 

"The  heathen  in  his  blindness  bows  down  to  wood  and 

stone," 
Said  Brown,  "but  this  poor  heathen  won't  bow  to  gold 

alone ; 

So  speak,  my  poor  Mongolian,  and  show  us  your  idee 
Of   what   we  call  'Free   Silver'   and  what   is  meant  by 

'Free.'" 

Swift  was  the  smile  that  stole  across  that  heathen's  face ! 

I  grieve 
That  swifter  was  the  hand  that  swept  those  dollars  up  his 

sleeve. 
"  Me  shabbee  '  Silvel '  allee  same  as  Mellican  man,"  says 

he; 
"  Me  shabbee  '  Flee '  means  '  B'longs  to  none,'  so  Chinaman 

catch  he!" 


412  "FREE  SILVER  AT  ANGEL'S" 


Now,  childlike  as  his  logic  was,  it  did  n't  justify' 

The  way  the  whole  crowd  went  for  him  without  a  reason 

why; 
And  the  language  Brown  made  use  of  I  shall  not  attempt 

to  show, 
For  my  words  are  plain  and  simple  —  and  I  never  yet  was 

low. 

Then  Abner  Dean  called  "Order!"  and  he  said  "that  it 

would  seem 

The  gentleman  from  China's  deductions  were  extreme ; 
I  move  that  we  should  teach  him,  in  a  manner  that  shall 

strike, 
The  <  bi-metallic  balance '  on  Mr.  Brown's  new  bike !  " 

Now  Dean  was  scientific,  —  but  was  sinful,  too,  and  gay,  — 
And  I  hold  it  most  improper  for  a  gent  to  act  that  way, 
And  having  muddled  Ah  Sin's  brains  with  that  same  silver 

craze, 
To  set  him  on  a  bicycle  —  and  he  not  know  its  ways. 

They  set  him  on  and  set  him  off;  it  surely  seemed  a  sin 
To  see  him  waltz  from  left  to  right,  and  wobble  out  and 

in, 
Till  his  pigtail  caught  within  the  wheel  and  wound  up 

round  its  rim, 
And  that  bicycle  got  up  and  reared  —  and  then  crawled 

over  him. 

"  My  poor  Mongolian  friend,"  said  Dean,  "  it 's  plain  that 

in  your  case 

Your  centre  point  of  gravity  don't  fall  within  your  base. 
We  '11  tie  the  silver  in  a  bag  and  hang  it  from  your  queue, 
And  then  —  by  scientific  law  —  you  '11  keep  your  balance 

true!" 


"FREE   SILVER  AT  ANGEI/S "  413 

They  tied  that  silver  to  his  queue,  and  it  hung  down  behind, 

But  always  straight,  no  matter  which  the  side  Ah  Sin  in 
clined  — 

For  though  a  sinful  sort  of  man  —  and  lightsome,  too,  I 
ween  — 

He  was  no  slouch  in  Science  —  was  Mister  Abner  Dean  ! 

And   here    I  would   remark   how  vain   are  all    deceitful 

tricks,  — 
The  boomerang  we  throw  comes  back  to  give  us  its  last 

licks,  — 
And  that  same  weight  on  Ah  Sin's  queue  set  him  up  straight 

and  plumb, 
And  he  scooted  past  us  down  the  grade  and  left  us  cold  and 

dumb  ! 

"  Come  back  !     Come  back  !  "  we  called  at  last.     We  heard 

a  shriek  of  glee, 
And  something  sounding  strangely  like  "  All  litee  !     Sil- 

vel  's  flee  !  " 
And  saw  his  feet  tucked  on  the  wheel  —  the  bike  go  all 

alone ! 
And  break  the  biggest  record  Angel's  Camp  had  ever  known ! 

He  raised  the  hill  without  a  spill,  and  still   his   speed 

maintained, 
For  why  ?  —  he  traveled  on  the  sheer  momentum  he  had 

gained, 
And  vanished  like  a  meteor  —  with  his  queue  stretched  in 

the  gale, 
Or  I  might  say  a  Comet  —  takin'  in  that  silver  tail ! 


But  not  again  we  saw  his  face  —  nor  Brown  his  "  Silver 

Free  "  ! 
And  I  marvel  in  my  simple  mind  howe'er  these  things  can  be ! 


414  "HASTA  MANANA" 

But  I  do  not  reproduce  the  speech  of  Brown  who  saw  him 

g°> 

For  my  words  are  pure  and  simple  —  and  I  never  yet  was 
low! 

"HASTA   MAftANA" 

WHEN  all 's  in  bud,  and  the  leaf  still  unfolding, 

When  there  are  ruby  points  still  on  the  spray, 

When  that  prim  school  gown  your  charms  are  withholding, 

Then,  Manuela,  child,  well  may  you  say : 

"  Hasta  Manana !  Hasta  Manana ! 
Until  to-morrow  —  amigo,  alway." 

When,  Manuela,  white,  crimson,  and  yellow, 
Peep  through  green  sepals  the  roses  of  May, 
And  through  black  laces  the  bloom  of  your  face  is 
Fresh  as  those  roses,  child,  still  you  may  say : 

Through  your  mantilla  —  coy  Manuela ! 
"  Hasta  Manana,  amigo,  alway." 

When  all 's  in  bloom,  and  the  rose  in  its  passion 
Warmed  on  your  bosom  would  never  say  nay, 
Still  it  is  wise  —  in  your  own  country  fashion  — 
Under  your  opening  fan,  only  to  say : 

"  Hasta  Manana !  Hasta  Manana ! 
Until  to-morrow,  amigo,  alway." 

When  all  is  gray  and  the  roses  are  scattered, 
Hearts  may  have  broken  that  brook  no  delay, 
Yet  will  to-morrow,  surcease  of  sorrow 
Bring  unto  eyes  and  lips  that  still  can  say : 
"  Hasta  Manana !  Hasta  Manana ! 
Until  to-morrow  is  best  for  to-day  !  " 


LINES   TO  A   PORTRAIT,   BY  A  SUPERIOR   PERSON      415 

Phrase  of  Castilian  lands !  Speech,  that  in  languor 
Softly  procrastinates,  for  "  aye  "  or  "  nay," 
From  Seville's  orange  groves  to  remote  Yanguea, 
Best  heard  on  rosy  lips  —  let  thy  words  say : 
"Hasta  Manana!  Hasta  Manana! 
Until  to-morrow,  amigo,  alway  !  " 


LINES  TO  A  PORTRAIT,  BY  A  SUPERIOR  PERSON 

WHEN  I  bought  you  for  a  song, 
Years  ago  —  Lord  knows  how  long  !  — 
I  was  struck  —  I  may  be  wrong  — 

By  your  features, 
And  —  a  something  in  your  air 
That  I  could  n't  quite  compare 
To  my  other  plain  or  fair 

Fellow-creatures. 

In  your  simple,  oval  frame 

You  were  not  well  known  to  fame, 

But  to  me  —  Jt  was  all  the  same  — 

Whoe'er  drew  you  j 
For  your  face  I  can't  forget, 
Though  I  oftentimes  regret 
That,  somehow,  I  never  yet 

Saw  quite  through  you. 

Yet  each  morning,  when  I  rise, 
I  go  first  to  greet  your  eyes  ; 
And,  in  turn,  you  scrutinize 

My  presentment. 

And  when  shades  of  evening  fall, 
As  you  hang  upon  my  wall, 
You  're  the  last  thing  I  recall 

With  contentment. 


416      LINES   TO  A  PORTRAIT,   BY  A  SUPERIOR   PERSON 

It  is  weakness,  yet  I  know 
That  I  never  turned  to  go 
Anywhere,  for  weal  or  woe, 

But  I  lingered 

For  one  parting,  thrilling  flash 
From  your  eyes,  to  give  that  dash 
To  the  curl  of  my  mustache, 

That  I  fingered. 

If  to  some  you  may  seem  plain, 
And  when  people  glance  again 
Where  you  hang,  their  lips  refrain 

From  confession ; 
Yet  they  turn  in  stealth  aside, 
And  I  note,  they  try  to  hide 
How  much  they  are  satisfied 

In  expression. 

Other  faces  I  have  seen  ; 

Other  forms  have  come  between; 

Other  things  I  have,  I  ween, 

Done  and  dared  for ! 
But  our  ties  they  cannot  sever, 
And,  though  /  should  say  it  never, 
You  're  the  only  one  I  ever 

Really  cared  for ! 

And  you  ?11  still  be  hanging  there 
When  we  're  both  the  worse  for  wear, 
And'  the  silver  Js  on  my  hair 

And  off  your  backing ; 
Yet  my  faith  shall  never  pass 
In  my  dear  old  shaving-glass, 
Till  my  face  and  yours,  alas ! 

Both  are  lacking ! 


THE   BIRDS   OF   CIRENCESTER  417 


THE  BIRDS  OF  CIRENCESTER 

DID  I  ever  tell  you,  my  dears,  the  way 
That  the  birds  of  Cisseter  —  "Cisseter!  "  eh? 
Well  "  Ciren-cester  "  —  one  ought  to  say, 
From  "Castra,"  or  "Caster/7 
As  your  Latin  master 
Will  further  explain  to  you  some  day; 
Though  even  the  wisest  err, 
And  Shakespeare  writes  "  Ci-cester," 
While  every  visitor 
Who  does  n't  say  "  Cisseter  " 
Is  in  "  Ciren-cester  "  considered  astray. 

A  hundred  miles  from  London  town  — 
Where  the  river  goes  curving  and  broadening  down 
From  tree-top  to  spire,  and  spire  to  mast, 
Till  it  tumbles  outright  in  the  Channel  at  last  — 
A  hundred  miles  from  that  flat  foreshore 
That  the  Danes  and  the  Northmen  haunt  no  more  — 
There  's  a  little  cup  in  the  Cotswold  Hills 
Which  a  spring  in  a  meadow  bubbles  and  fills, 
Spanned  by  a  heron's  wing  —  crossed  by  a  stride  — 
Calm  and  untroubled  by  dreams  of  pride, 
Guiltless  of  fame  or  ambition's  aims, 
That  is  the  source  of  the  lordly  Thames ! 
Remark  here  again  that  custom  condemns 
Both  "Thames"  and  Thamis  —  you  must  say  " Terns"  ! 
But  why  ?  no  matter  !  —  from  them  you  can  see 
Cirencester's  tall  spires  loom  up  o'er  the  lea. 

A.D.  Five  Hundred  and  Fifty-two, 
The  Saxon  invaders  —  a  terrible  crew  — 
Had  forced  the  lines  of  the  Britons  through; 


418  THE  BIRDS   OF  CIRENCESTER 

And  Cirencester — half  mud  and  thatch, 
Dry  and  crisp  as  a  tinder  match, 
Was  fiercely  beleaguered  by  foes,  who  'd  catch 
At  any  device  that  could  harry  and  rout 
The  folk  that  so  boldly  were  holding  out. 

For  the  streets  of  the  town  —  as  you  '11  see  to-day  — 
Were  twisted  and  curved  in  a  curious  way 
That  kept  the  invaders  still  at  bay ; 
And  the  longest  bolt  that  a  Saxon  drew 
Was  stopped,  ere  a  dozen  of  yards  it  flew, 
By  a  turn  in  the  street,  and  a  law  so  true 
That  even  these  robbers  —  of  all  laws  scorners  !  — 
Knew  you  couldn't  shoot  arrows  around  street  corners. 

So  they  sat  them  down  on  a  little  knoll, 
And  each  man  scratched  his  Saxon  poll, 
And  stared  at  the  sky,  where,  clear  and  high, 
The  birds  of  that  summer  went  singing  by, 
As  if,  in  his  glee,  each  motley  jester 
Were  mocking  the  foes  of  Cirencester, 
Till  the  jeering  crow  and  the  saucy  linnet 
Seemed  all  to  be  saying  :   "  Ah !  you  're  not  in  it !  " 

High  o'er  their  heads  the  mavis  flew, 
And  the  "  ouzel-cock  so  black  of  hue  "  ; 
And  the  "  throstle,"  with  his  "  note  so  true  " 
(You  remember  what  Shakespeare  says  —  he  knew)  ; 
And  the  soaring  lark,  that  kept  dropping  through 
Like  a  bucket  spilling  in  wells  of  blue  ; 
And  the  merlin — seen  on  heraldic  panes  — 
With  legs  as  vague  as  the  Queen  of  Spain's ; 
And  the  dashing  swift  that  would  ricochet 
From  the  tufts  of  grasses  before  them,  yet  — 


THE   BIKDS   OF  CIRENCESTER  419 

Like  bold  Antaeus — would  each  time  bring 

New  life  from  the  earth,  barely  touched  by  his  wing; 

And  the  swallow  and  martlet  that  always  knew 

The  straightest  way  home.     Here  a  Saxon  churl  drew 

His  breath — tapped  his  forehead — an  idea  had  got  through ! 

So  they  brought  them  some  nets,  which  straightway  they 

filled 

With  the  swallows  and  martlets — the  sweet  birds  who  build 
In  the  houses  of  man  —  all  that  innocent  guild 
Who  sing  at  their  labor  on  eaves  and  in  thatch  — 
And  they  stuck  on  their  feathers  a  rude  lighted  match 
Made  of  resin  and  tow.     Then  they  let  them  all  go 
To  be  free !     As  a  childlike  diversion  ?     Ah,  no  ! 
To  work  Cirencester's  red  ruin  and  woe. 

For  straight  to  each  nest  they  flew,  in  wild  quest 
Of  their  homes  and  their  fledglings  —  that  they  loved  the 

best; 

And  straighter  than  arrow  of  Saxon  e'er  sped 
They  shot  o'er  the  curving  streets,  high  overhead, 
Bringing  fire  and  terror  to  roof-tree  and  bed, 
Till  the  town  broke  in  flame,  wherever  they  came, 
To  the  Briton's  red  ruin  —  the  Saxon's  red  shame ! 

Yet  they  're  all  gone  together !     To-day  you  '11  dig  up 
From  "  mound  "  or  from  "  barrow  "  some  arrow  or  cup. 
Their  fame  is  forgotten — their  story  is  ended  — 
'Neath  the  feet  of  the  race  they  have  mixed  with  and  blended. 
But  the  birds  are  unchanged  —  the  ouzel-cock  sings, 
Still  gold  on  his  crest  and  still  black  on  his  wings ; 
And  the  lark  chants  on  high,  as  he  mounts  to  the  sky, 
Still  brown  in  his  coat  and  still  dim  in  his  eye ; 
While  the  swallow  or  martlet  is  still  a  free  nester 
In  the  eaves  and  the  roofs  of  thrice-built  Cirencester. 


420     TRUTHFUL  JAMES  AND  THE  KLONDIKER 


TKUTHFUL  JAMES  AND  THE  KLONDIKER 

WE  woz  sittin'  free  —  like  ez  you  and  me  —  in  our  camp 
on  the  Stanislow, 

Kound  a  roarin'  fire  of  bresh  and  brier,  stirred  up  by  a 
pitch-pine  bough, 

And  Jones  of  Yolo  had  finished  his  solo  on  Bilson's  pros- 
pectin'  pan, 

And  we  all  woz  gay  until  Jefferson  Clay  kern  in  with  a 
Klondike  man. 

Now  I  most  despise  low  language  and  lies,  as  I  used  to  re 
mark  to  Nye, 

But  the  soul  of  Truth — though  he  was  but  a  youth  — 
looked  out  of  that  stranger's  eye, 

And  the  things  he  said  I  had  frequent  read  in  the  papers 
down  on  "  the  Bay," 

And  the  words  he  choosed  woz  the  kind  wot 's  used  in  the 
best  theayter  play. 

He  talked  of  snows,  and  of  whiskey  wot  froze  in  the  solid- 
est  kind  of  chunk, 

Which  it  took  just  a  pound  to  go  fairly  around  when  the 
boys  had  a  first-class  drunk, 

And  of  pork  that  was  drilled  and  with  dynamite  filled  be 
fore  it  would  yield  to  a  blow, 

For  things  will  be  strange  when  thermometers  range  to 
sixty  degrees  below. 

How  they  made  soup  of  boots  —  which  the  oldest  best 
suits  —  and  a  "fry"  from  a  dancin'  shoe, 

How  in  Yukon  Valley  a  corpse  de  bally  might  get  up  a 
fine  "menoo." 


TRUTHFUL  JAMES  AND  THE  KLONDIKEK     421 

But  their  regular  fare  when  they  'd  nothin'  to  spare  and 

had  finished  their  final  mule 
Was  the  harness  leather  which  with  hides  went  together, 

though  the  last  did  n't  count  ez  a  rule. 

Now  all  this  seemed  true,  and  quite  nateral,  too,  and  then 

he  spoke  of  the  gold, 
And  we  all  sot  up,  and  refilled  his  cup,  and  this  is  the  yarn 

he  told  : 
There  was  gold  in  heaps  —  but  it 's  there  it  keeps,  and  will 

keep  till  the  Judgment  Day, 
For  it's  very  rare  that  a  man  gets  there — and  the  man 

that  is  there  must  stay  ! 

It's  a  thousand  miles  by  them  Kussian  isles  till  you  come 

onto  "  Fort  Get  There  " 
(Which  the  same  you  are  not  if  you'll  look  at  the  spot  on 

the  map  —  that  of  gold  is  bare)  ; 
Then  a  river  begins  that  the  Amazon  skins  and  the  big 

Mississippi  knocks  out, 
For  it's  seventy  miles  'cross  its  mouth  when  it  smiles, and  — 

you  've  only  begun  your  route. 

Here  Bilson  arose  with  a  keerless-like  pose  and  he  gazed  on 

that  Klondike  youth, 
And  he  says  :  "  Fair  sir,  do  not  think  I  infer  that  your 

words  are  not  words  of  truth, 
But  I  'd  simply  ask  why  —  since  that  all  men  must  die  — 

your  sperrit  is  wanderin'  here 
When  at  Dawson  City  —  the  more's  the  pity  —  you've  been 

frozen  up  nigh  a  year." 

"  You  need  not  care,  for  I  never  was  there,"  said  that  sim 
ple  Klondike  man. 


422  UNCLE  JUBA 

"  I  'm  a  company  floater  and  business  promoter,  and  this  is 
my  little  plan : 

I  show  you  the  dangers  to  which  you  are  strangers,  and 
now  for  a  sum  you  '11  learn 

What  price  you  expect  us  —  as  per  this  Prospectus — to  in 
sure  your  safe  return." 

Then  Bilson  stared,  and  he  almost  r'ared,  but  he  spoke  in 

a  calm-like  tone : 
"  You  '11  excuse  me  for  sayin'  you  're  rather  delayin'  your 

chance  to  insure  your  own! 
For  we're  wayworn  and  weary,  your  style  isn't  cheery,  we've 

had  quite  enough  of  your  game." 
But  —  what  did  affect  us  —  he  took  that  Prospectus  and 

chucked  it  right  into  the  flame ! 

Then  our  roarin'  fire  of  bresh  and  brier  flashed  up  on  the 

Stanislow, 
And  Jefferson  Clay  went  softly  away  with  that  youth  with 

a  downcast  brow, 
And  Jones  of  Yolo  repeated  his  solo  on  that  still,  calm 

evening  air, 
And  we  thought  with  a  shiver  of  Yukon  River  and  the 

fort  that  was  called  "  Get  There!  " 

UNCLE  JUBA 

"DAB  was  a  man  in  Florida,  dey  called  him  ' Uncle  Ju,' 
De  doctor  found  him  proof  agin  all  fevers  dat  dey  knew ; 
De  cholera  bacillus  he  would  brush  away  like  flies, 
And  yaller  fever  microbes  he  would  simply  jess  despise. 
For  he  was  such  a  bery  seasoned  nigger 

Froo  and  f roo  —  all  froo, 
Jess  de  acclimated,  vaccinated  figger 
To  do — to  do. 


UNCLE   JUBA  423 

When  de  sojer  boys  came  marching,  dey  would 

shout, 
'Lordy!    Here's  de  man  for  Cuba — trot  him 

out. 

For  even  if  he  cannot  pull  a  trigger 
Just  like  you  —  like  you, 
He  's  a  seasoned  and  an  acclimated  figure, 
Dat  will  do  —  will  do.7 

"  De  proudest  man  in  Florida  dat  day  was  '  Uncle  Ju,' 
When  dey  marched  him  off  to  Cuba  wid  de  odder  boys  in 

blue; 

He  had  a  brand-new  uniform,  a  red  cross  on  his  arm, 
He  said,  'Don't  mind  me,  darkies,  I  can't  come  to  any  harm, 
For  de  surgeon  dat  inspected  of  my  figger 

When  on  view  —  on  view, 
Sez  I  'm  just  de  kind  of  acclimated  nigger 

Dat  'ud  do  —  would  do. 
I  can  tackle  yaller  fever  all  de  day, 
I  'm  de  only  man  for  Cuba  what  can  stay, 
For  agin  de  bery  worst  kind  of  malaria 
Dat  dey  knew  —  dey  knew, 
I  'm  an  iron- plated,  sheathed  and  belted  area 
Froo  and  froo  —  all  froo.' 

"  Alas !  for  Ju,  poor  Uncle  Ju,  aldo'  dar  was  no  doubt 
Dey  passed  him  froo  as  fever  proof,  one  ting  dey  had  left 

out ; 
For  while  he  took  his  rations  straight,  and  odders  died  like 

flies, 
Along  o'  dat  'er  Yaller  Jack  and  deadly  Cuban  skies, 

And  though  such  a  bery  highly  seasoned  nigger 

Froo  and  froo  —  all  froo, 
And  an  acclimated,  vaccinated  figure 
Just  like  new  —  like  new, 


424  THE  QUEEN'S  DEATH 

One  day  a  Spanish  gunner  sent  a  shell 
Which  skooted  dat  poor  darkie  off  to  dwell 
Where  de  fever  would  send  any  odder  nigger 

Like  you  —  like  you, 
For  it  flattened  out  dat  acclimated  figger 

Ob  old  Ju  —  poor  Ju." 


THE  QUEEN'S  DEATH 

(ON    THE    DEATH    OF    QUEEN    VICTORIA) 

WHEN  your  men  bowed  heads  together 

With  hushed  lips, 
And  the  globe  swung  out  from  gladness 

To  eclipse ; 

When  your  drums  from  the  equator 

To  the  pole 
Carried  round  it  an  unending 

Funeral  roll ; 

When  your  capitals  from  Norway 

To  the  Cape 
Through  their  streets  and  from  their  houses 

Trailed  their  crape ; 

Still  the  sun  awoke  to  gladness 

As  of  old, 
And  the  stars  their  midnight  beauty 

Still  unrolled ; 

For  the  glory  born  of  Goodness 

Never  dies, 
And  its  flag  is  not  half-masted 

In  the  skies. 


THE  SWORD   OF  DON  JOSE  425 


THE  SWORD  OF  DON 
(TOLD  AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  LUIS  BET,  i860) 

(Bret  Harte's  last  poem) 

AYE,  look,  there  it  hangs  !     You  would  think  't  was  a  cross 

Fairly  wrought  of  old  iron.     Yet,  barring  the  loss 

Of  some  twisted  work  here  that  once  guarded  the  hand, 

You  might  say  't  was  the  hilt  of  some  cavalier's  brand  ; 

As  it  is,  of  a  truth  !     You  are  staring,  Senor  ! 

At  this  shrine,  at  this  altar,  where  never  before 

Hung  ex  voto  so  strange  ;  at  these  walls  in  decay, 

All  that  stands  of  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey  ; 

At  these  leagues  of  wild  llano  beyond,  which  still  hoard 

In  their  heart  this  poor  shrine,  and  a  cavalier's  sword  ! 

Yes  !     It  hangs  there  to  praise  Holy  Church  and  the  spell 

She  once  broke  in  her  power  and  glory  ;  as  well 

As  that  tough  blade  she  snapped  in  its  vengeance,  just 

when  — 
But  here  is  —  Don  Pancho  !  —  a  tale  for  your  pen  ! 

You  accept.     Then  observe  on  the  blade  near  its  haft 
The  world-renowned  stamp  of  that  chief  of  his  craft 
In  Toledo,  Sebastian  Hernandez.     The  date 
You  will  note  :  sixteen  hundred  and  seventy-eight  ! 
That  's  the  year,  so  't  is  said,  when  this  story  begins 
And  he  fashioned  that  blade  for  our  sorrows  and  sins. 

From  a  baldric  of  Cordovan  leather  and  steel 

It  trailed  in  its  prime,  at  the  insolent  heel 

Of  Don  Jose  Ramirez,  a  Toledan  knight, 

Poor  in  all,  so  't  was  said,  but  a  stomach  for  fight. 

And  that  blade,  like  himself,  was  so  eager  and  keen 

It  would  glide  through  a  corselet  and  all  else  between  ; 


426  THE  SWORD   OF  DON  JOSE 

And  so  supple  't  would  double  from  point  to  the  hilt, 
Yet  pierce  a  cuirass  like  a  lance  in  full  tilt ; 
Till  'twixt  Master  and  Sword,  there  was  scarcely  a  day 
That  both  were  not  drawn  in  some  quarrel  or  fray. 

Then  Ruy  Mendoza,  a  grandee  of  Spain, 
Castellan  of  Toledo,  was  called  to  maintain 
That  such  blades  should  be  parted,  but  Jose  replied, 
"  Come  and  try  it ! "  —  while  Kuy  let  fall,  on  his  side 
Certain  sneers  which  too  free  a  translation  might  mar, 
Such  as  "  Ho!  Espadachin  !  "  and  "  Fanfarronear  !  " 
Till  Don  Josd  burst  out  that  "  the  whole  race  abhorred," 
The  line  of  Mendoza' s  should  "fall  by  his  sword." 

The  oath  of  a  braggart,  you  'd  say  ?     Well,  in  truth, 
So  it  seemed,  for  that  oath  wrought  Ramirez  but  ruth ; 
And  spite  of  the  lightnings  that  leaped  from  his  blade, 
Here  and  there,  everywhere,  never  point  yet  he  made ; 
While  the  sword  of  Mendoza,  pressing  closely  but  true, 
At  the  third  and  fourth  pass  ran  the  challenger  through, 
And  he  fell.     But  they  say  as  the  proud  victor  grasped 
The  sword  of  Ramirez,  the  dying  man  gasped, 
And  his  white  lips  repeated  the  words  of  his  boast : 
"  Ye  —  shall  —  fall  —  by  —  my  —  sword,"  as  he  gave  up 
the  ghost. 

"  Retribution  ?  "      Quien  sale  ?     The  tale 's  not  yet  done. 
For  a  twelvemonth  scarce  passed  since  that  victory  won 
And  the  sword  of  Don  Jose  hung  up  in  the  hall 
Of  Mendoza' s  own  castle,  a  lesson  for  all 
Who  love  brawls  to  consider,  when  one  summer  noon 
Don  Ruy  came  home  just  an  hour  too  soon, 
As  some   husbands  will  do  when  their  wives    prove  un 
true, 
And  discovered  his  own  with  a  lover,  who  flew 


THE   SWORD  OF  DON   JOSE  427 

From  her  bower  through  passage  and  hall  in  dismay, 
With  the  Don  in  pursuit,  but  at  last  stood  at  bay 
In  the  hall,  where  they  closed  in  a  deadly  affray. 

But  here,  runs  the  tale,  when  the  lover's  bright  blade, 

Engaging  Don  R-uy's,  showed  out  "  in  parade," 

The  latter  drew  back  with  a  cry  and  a  start 

Which  threw  up  his  guard,  and  straightway  through  his 

heart 

Passed  the  sword  of  his  rival.     He  fell,  but  they  say 
He  pointed  one  hand,  as  his  soul  was  set  free, 
To  the  blade,  and  gasped  out :   "  'T  is  his  sword !  Ay  de  mi ! " 
And  't  was  true  !  For  the  lover,  unarmed  in  his  flight, 
Caught  up  the  first  weapon  that  chanced  to  his  sight  — 
The  sword  on  the  wall,  Jose's  own  fateful  brand, 
Not  knowing  the  curse  to  be  wrought  by  his  hand. 

So  the  first  victim  fell !  When  Don  Luis,  the  heir 
Of  the  luckless  Don  Ruy,  in  haste  summoned  there, 
Heard  the  tale,  he  commanded  the  sword  which  had  wrought 
Such  mischance  to  his  race  to  be  instantly  brought, 
And  in  presence  of  all  smote  the  blade  such  a  blow 
'Cross  the  mail  of  his  knee  as  should  snap  it ;  but,  no ; 
For  that  well-tempered  steel,  from  its  point  to  its  heel, 
Was  so  supple,  it  bent  in  an  arc  like  a  wheel, 
And  recoiling,  glanced  up,  to  the  horror  of  all, 
Through  the  throat  of  the  heir,  in  his  dead  father's  hall ! 

Next  of  kin  was  a  soldier,  Ramon,  who  maintained 
That  by  boldness  alone  was  security  gained, 
And  the  curse  would  be  naught  to  the  man  who  dared  trip 
Through  the  rest  of  his  life  with  that  sword  on  his  hip, 
As  he  should.     But,  what  would  you  ?  when  he  took  the 

field, 
His  troop  was  surrounded ;  himself  made  to  yield 


428  THE   SWORD  OF  DON  JOSE 

And  deliver  his  sword !  You  can  fancy  the  rest 

When  you  think  of  the  curse.      By  the  foe  sorely  pressed 

In  a  fight,  when  released,  he  fell  by  that  brand 

Of  the  Spanish  Jose,  in  some  strange  Flemish  hand ! 

Then  the  sword  disappeared,  and  with  it,  it  seemed, 

The  race  of  Mendoza.     No  man  ever  dreamed 

Of  a  curse  lying  perdu  for  centuries ;  when, 

Some  time  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ten, 

There  died  at  the  Pueblo  of  San  Luis  Key 

Comandante  Mendoza,  descended,  they  say, 

Prom  those  proud  hidalgos  who  brought  in  their  hands 

No  sword,  but  the  cross,  to  these  far  heathen  lands, 

And  he  left  but  one  son,  Agustin,  to  alone 

Bear  the  curse  of  his  race  (though  to  him  all  unknown); 

A  studious  youth,  quite  devout  from  a  child, 

With  no  trace  of  that  sin  his  ancestors  defiled. 

You  know  the  Pueblo  ?     On  its  outskirts  there  stood 

The  casa  new-built  of  El  Capitan  Wood 

An  American  trader,  who  brought  from  the  seas 

Much  wealth  and  the  power  to  live  at  his  ease. 

And  his  casa  was  filled  with  the  spoils  of  all  climes 

He  had  known ;  silks  and  china,  rare  goods  of  all  times. 

But  notably  first,  'midst  queer  idols  and  charms, 

Was  a  rare  and  historical  trophy  of  arms ; 

And  supreme  over  all,  hung  the  prize  of  that  hoard, 

An  antique  and  genuine  Toledan  sword. 

He  had,  too,  a  son,  who  was  playmate  and  friend 

To  Agustin.     Together,  their  joy  was  to  spend 

In  this  house  of  rare  treasures  their  hours  of  play ; 

And  here  it  so  chanced  that  an  unlucky  day 

The  son  of  the  host  in  adventurous  zeal 

Climbed  the  wall  to  examine  that  queer-looking  steel 


THE  SWORD  OF  DON  JOSE  429 

While  Agustin  looked  on.     A  misstep !     A  wild  cry  ! 
And  a  clutch  that  tore  loose  that  queer  weapon  on  high, 
And  they  both  hurtled  down  on  Agustin  beneath 
With  his  uplifted  arms,  and  his  breast  a  mere  sheath 
For  the  blade!     When,  thank  God!    (and  all  glory  and 

praise 

To  our  blessed  San  Luis,  whose  shrine  here  we  raise !) 
Its  point  struck  the  cross  ever  hung  at  his  neck 
And  shivered  like  glass!  a  miraculous  wreck! 
Without  splinter  or  fragment  save  this  near  the  hilt, 
And  of  innocent  blood  not  a  drop  ever  spilt ! 

There 's  the  tale !     Yet  not  all !  though  that  cross  broke 

the  spell 

It  ended  the  race  of  Mendoza  as  well, 
For  that  youth  was  the  last  of  his  name  !     You  ask,  "  How  ? 
Died  he  too  ?  "     Nay,  Don  Pancho,  —  he  speaks  with  you 

now, — 

Spared  that  curse  as  "  Agustin"  his  young  life  he  laid, 
With  his  vows,  on  this  altar,  as  "  Brother  Merced" 
And  this  cross  on  my  breast  with  this  dent,  as  you  see, 
Hangs  but  where  it  hung  when  that  spell  was  set  free ! 


THE    END 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


jEsop,  The  Improved,  232. 

American  Haroun  al-Raschid,  An,  171. 

American  Humor,  225. 

Angelas,  The,  123. 

Answering  the  Bell,  334. 

Arcadia  Revisited,  312. 

Argument  of  Lurline,  The,  321. 

Artemus  Ward,  126. 

At  the  Sepulchre,  310. 

Bailie  o1  Perth,  The,  298. 
Banks  and  the  Slave  Girl,  348. 
Bartlett,  William  Francis,  Of,  388. 
Battle  Autumn,  The,  349. 
Bill  Mason's  Bride,  383. 
Birds  of  Cirencester,  The,  417. 
Boggs  OQ  the  Horse,  12. 
By  the  Sad  Sea  Waves,  303. 

California  to  the    Sanitary    Commission, 

362. 

"Camanche,"  Song  of  the,  363. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  and  Peter  of  the  North, 

361. 

Case  of  Blasted  Affections,  A,  68. 
Cavalry  Song,  A,  352. 
Chicago,  383. 

Child's  Ghost  Story,  A,  33. 
Colenso  Rhymes  for  Orthodox  Children, 

327. 

Compensation,  405. 

Confucius  and  the  Chinese  Classics,  235. 
Conservative  Bridge  of  Sighs,  The,  346. 
Copperhead  Convention,  The,  355. 
Count   of  Monte   Cristo,    The.    See   My 

Favorite  Novelist. 
Countess,  The,  88. 

Davis,  Jefferson,  In  Memoriam,  377. 
Davis,  Jefferson,  The  Vendue  of,  373. 
Deacon  Jones's  Experience,  885. 
Dead  Politician,  The,  401. 
Dickens,  Charles,  165. 
Dolores,  294. 

Dumas,    Alexander.     See   My    Favorite 
Novelist. 

Early  Californian  Superstitions,  144. 

Effie,  303. 

Elise,  296. 

Enoch  of  Calaveras,  The,  407. 

Fable  for  the  Times,  A,  360. 
Facts  concerning  a  Meerschaum,  37. 
Few  Words  about  Mr.  Lowell,  A,  256. 
First  Broom  Ranger,  The,  333. 
First  Man.  The.  184. 


Fixing  up  an  Old  House,  129. 
Flag-Staff  on   Shackleford   Island,   The, 

367, 

Fog  Bell,  The,  291. 
Fountain  of  Youth,  The,  283. 
Free  Silver  at  Angel's,  409. 

Gentleman  of  La  Porte,  A,  197. 
Great  Patent-Office  Fire,  The,  237. 

Hasta  Mafiana,  414. 
Hero  of  Sugar  Pine,  The,  369. 
His  Wife's  Sister,  58. 
Homestead  Barn,  The,  288. 

Important  Mexican  Correspondence,  815. 
Improved  J3sop,  The,  232. 
In  Memoriam,  877. 
Intercepted  Letter,  An,  315. 

Jayhawk,  Sylvester,  150. 
Jessie,  293. 

King,  Thomas  Starr,  310. 
Kitty  Hawk,  397. 

Lament  of  the  Ballad-Writer,  The,  378. 

Lay  of  the  Launch,  A,  364. 

Legend  of  Glen  Head,  The,  395. 

Lessons  from  the  Earthquake,  162. 

Lethe,  299. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  On  the  Assassination 

Line's  to  a  Portrait,  by  a  Superior  Person, 

Lines  written  in,  a  Prayer-Book,  280. 

Longfellow,  249. 

Lost  Heiress,  The,  83. 

Love  and  Physic,  281. 

Lowell,  Mr.,  A  Few  Words  about,  256. 

Mad  River,  319. 

Madame  Brimborion,  80. 

Mary's  Album,  306. 

May  Queen,  The,  387. 

Mida's  Wooing,  300. 

Midsummer,  337. 

Miss  Edith  helps  Things  along,  399. 

Miss  Mary  Crusoe,  The  Story  of,  104. 

My  Favorite  Novelist  and  his  Best  Book, 

266. 

My  Metamorphosis,  3. 
My  Otherself,  44. 
My  Soul  to  Thine,  304. 

Naughty    Little    Boy,    Sleeping,  On    a. 


432 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Of  One  who  fell  in  Battle,  369. 

Of  William  Francis  Bartlett,  388. 

Old  Time  and  New,  403. 

On  a  Naughty  Little  Boy,  Sleeping,  309. 

On  a  Pretty  Girl  at  the  Opera,  134. 

Our  Last  Offering,  140. 

Our  Laureate,  406. 

Patent-Office  Fire,  The  Great,  237. 

"Peter  of  the  North"  to  Thomas  Carlyle, 
361. 

Petroleum  Fiend,  The,  94. 

Pioneers  of  "Forty- Nine,"  The,  158. 

Plaza,  The,  332. 

Poem  delivered  at  the  Patriotic  Exercises 
in  the  Metropolitan  Theatre,  San 
Francisco,  July  4,  1863,  328. 

Poem  delivered  on  the  Occasion  of  the 
Laying  of  the  Corner-Stone  of  the  Cali 
fornia  Deaf,  Dumb,  and  Blind  Asylum, 
339. 

Pony  Express,  The,  320. 

Popular  Biographies,  150. 

Portala's  Cross,  340. 

Pretty  Girl  at  the  Opera,  On  a,  134. 

Prize-Fighter  to  his  Mistress,  The,  305. 

Queen's  Death,  The,  424. 
Question,  297. 

Kan  Away,  72. 

Rejected  Stockholder,  The,  307. 

Retiring  from  Business,  188. 

Sabbath  Bells,  The,  314. 
St.  Valentine  in  Camp,  370. 
Schalk!  856. 
Schemmelfennig,  372. 
Scotch  Lines  to  A.  S.  B.,  406. 
Self-made  Men  of  Our  Day,  150. 


Semmea,  350. 

Sepulchre,  At  the,  810. 

Serenade,  304. 

Ships,  111. 

Song  of  the  "Camanche,"  863. 

South  Park,  831. 

Stage-Coach  Conversations,  155. 

Stories  for  Little  Girls,  103. 

Story  of  Miss  Mary  Crusoe,  The,  104. 

Story  of  the  Revolution,  23. 

Student's  Dream,  The,  286. 

Sword  of  Don  Jose*,  The,  425. 

Sylvester  Jayhawk,  150. 

Thanksgiving  Retrospect,  A,  379. 
That  Ebrew  Jew,  392. 
Transcendental  Valentine,  A,  804. 

Treasurer  A y,  326. 

Truthful  James  and  the  Klondiker,  420. 
Trysting,  290. 

Uncle  Juba,  422. 
Under  the  Guns,  404. 

Valentine,  The,  279. 

Vendue  of  Jefferson  Davis,  The,  373. 

Volunteer  Stocking,  A,  345. 

Wanderings  of  Ulysses,  The,  390. 
Wanted  —  a  Printer,  118. 
Ward,  Artemus,  126. 
Washington,  120. 
Washington  in  New  Jersey,  215. 
What  Bret  Harte  saw,  221. 
Wrath  of  McDawdle,  The,  353. 
Wrecker,  The,  301. 

Yale  won  the  Great  Race,  How,  221. 
Yerba  Buena,  The,  325. 
Yreka  Serpent,  The,  357. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


KV  ( 


sse^gens 

ESS  sswrMK.  •&—  — • 


LD  21-: 


a  c^ 

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